Tl^lT^     /'"VT^  •••HPT  Tl~^ 

RE  OF  THE 


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THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA.     Illustrated. 
THE    COUNTRY  OF   SIR    WALTER    SCOTT. 
Illustrated. 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 
BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 


THE   STEPPING   STONES 


THE  LURE  OF  THE 
CAMERA 

BY 

CHARLES  S.  OLCOTT 

M 

Author  of  "  George  Eliot :  Scenes  and  People  of 

her  Novels  "  and  "  The  Country 

of  Sir  Walter  Scott " 


ILLUSTRATED  FROM  PHOTOGRAPHS 
BY  THE  AUTHOR 


BOSTON   AND    NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

uw  Cambriboc 
1914 


COPYRIGHT,   1914,  BY  CHARLES  S.   OLCOTT 
ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 

Published  September  1914. 


TO  MY  BOYS 

GAGE,   CHARLES,   AND   HOWARD 

THIS  BOOK  IS  AFFECTIONATELY 

DEDICATED 


395404 


PREFACE 

THE  difference  between  a  ramble  and  a  jour- 
ney is  about  the  same  as  that  between  pleas- 
ure and  business.  When  you  go  anywhere  for  a 
serious  purpose,  you  make  a  journey  ;  but  if  you 
go  for  pleasure  (and  don't  take  the  pleasure  too 
seriously,  as  many  do)  you  only  ramble. 

The  sketches  in  this  volume,  which  takes  its 
name  from  the  first  chapter,  are  based  upon 
"  rambles,"  which  were  for  the  most  part  merely 
incidental  excursions,  made  possible  by  various 
"journeys"  undertaken  for  more  serious  pur- 
poses. It  has  been  the  practice  of  the  author  for 
many  years  to  carry  a  camera  on  his  travels,  so 
that,  if  chance  should  take  him  within  easy  dis- 
tance of  some  place  of  literary,  historic,  or  scenic 
interest,  he  might  not  miss  the  opportunity  to 
pursue  his  favorite  avocation. 

If  the  reader  is  asked  to  make  long  flights,  as 
from  Scotland  to  Italy,  then  back,  across  the  At- 
lantic, to  New  England,  and  thence  overland  to 
Wyoming  and  Arizona,  he  must  remember  that 
ramblers  take  no  account  of  distance  or  direction. 
In  this  case  they  must  take  no  account  of  time, 
for  these  rambles  are  but  the  chance  happen- 
ings that  have  occurred  at  intervals  in  a  period 
of  more  than  a  dozen  years. 

vii 


PREFACE 

People  who  are  in  a  hurry,  and  those  who  in 
traveling  seek  to  "  do "  the  largest  number  of 
places  in  the  shortest  number  of  days,  are  advised 
not  to  travel  with  an  amateur  photographer.  Not 
only  must  he  have  leisure  to  find  and  study  his 
subjects,  but  he  is  likely  to  wander  away  from 
the  well-worn  paths  and  use  up  his  time  in  mak- 
ing inquiries,  in  a  fashion  quite  exasperating  to 
the  tourist  absorbed  in  his  itinerary. 

The  rambles  here  chronicled  could  not  possi- 
bly be  organized  into  an  itinerary  or  moulded 
into  a  guidebook.  The  author  simply  invites 
those  who  have  inclinations  similar  to  his  own, 
to  wander  with  him,  away  from  the  customary 
paths  of  travel,  and  into  the  homes  of  certain  dis- 
tinguished authors  or  the  scenes  of  their  writ- 
ings, and  to  visit  with  him  various  places  of 
historic  interest  or  natural  beauty,  without  a 
thought  of  maps,  distances,  time-tables,  or  the 
toil  and  dust  of  travel.  This  is  the  real  essence 
of  rambling. 

The  chapter  on  "The  Country  of  Mrs.  Hum- 
phry Ward  "  was  published  originally  in  The 
Outlook  in  1909,  and  "  A  Day  in  Wordsworth's 
Country,"  in  the  same  magazine  in  1910. 


CONTENTS 

I.  THE  LUBE  OF  THE  CAMERA  ....      1 
II.  LITERARY  RAMBLES  IN  GREAT  BRITAIN  .    15 

English  Courtesy  —  The  George  Eliot  Country  — 
Experiences  in  Rural  England.  Overcoming 
Obstacles  —  A  London  "  Bobby  "  —  Carlyle's 
Birthplace  —  The  Country  of  Scott  and  Burns 

III.  A  DAY  IN  WORDSWORTH'S  COUNTRY        .    49 

IV.  FROM  HAWTHORNDEN  TO  ROSLIN  GLEN  .    73 
V.  THE  COUNTRY  OP  MRS.  HUMPHRY  WARD    93 

I.  MRS.  WARD  AND  HER  WORK  ...   95 
II.  THE  REAL  ROBERT  ELSMERE  .    .    .110 

III.  OTHER  PEOPLE  AND  SCENERY.    .    .128 

VI.  A  TOUR  OF  THE  ITALIAN  LAKES        .      .  147 

VII.  LITERARY  LANDMARKS  OF  NEW  ENGLAND  175 
i.  CONCORD 179 

II.   SALEM 196 

ra.  PORTSMOUTH "  .  207 

IV.  THE  ISLES  OF  SHOALS         ....   222 

VIII.  A  DAY  WITH  JOHN  BURROUGHS  .  .  233 

IX.  GLIMPSES  OF  THE  YELLOWSTONE  .  .251 

X.  THE  GRAND  CANON  OF  ARIZONA  .  .  271 

INDEX  .  297 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


THE  STEPPING  STONES Frontispiece 

On  the  River  Rothay,  near  Ambleside,  England,  and 
below  Fox  How,  the  home  of  Thomas  Arnold  of  Rugby, 
grandfather  of  Mrs.  Humphry  Ward.  One  of  the  scenes  in 
"Robert  Elsmere"  was  suggested  by  these  stones. 

A  PATH  IN  BRETTON  WOODS 10 

White  Mountains,  N.H. 

PROFILE  LAKE 12 

Showing  the  Old  Man  of  the  Mountains. 
In  the  Frariconia  Notch,  White    Mountains,    N.H.     The 
profile  suggested  to  Hawthorne  the  tale  of  "The  Great 
Stone  Face." 

THE  GRAND  SALOON,  ARBURY  HALL        ....    22 
Near    Nuneaton,    England.    The    original   of    Cheverel 
Manor,  in  George  Eliot's  "Mr.  Gilfil's  Love  Story." 

A  SCHOOL  IN  NUNEATON 30 

Where  George  Eliot  attended  school  in  her  eighth  or  ninth 
year. 

THE  BROMLEY-DAVENPORT  ARMS 34 

In  EUastone,  England,  the  original  of  the  "Donnithorne 
Arms"  of  "Adam  Bede." 

THE  BIRTHPLACE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS        ....    40 

In  Ayrshire,  Scotland.  The  poet  was  born  here  January 
25,  1759.  The  left  of  the  building  is  the  cottage  of  two 
rooms  where  the  family  lived.  Adjoining,  on  the  right,  is 
the  "byre,"  or  cow-house. 

THE  BURNS  MONUMENT,  AYRSHIRE 44 

The  monument  was  built  in  1820.  It  is  sixty  feet  high, 
and  almost  an  exact  duplicate  of  the  monument  in  Edin- 
burgh. 

xi 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

THE  BRIG  o*  DOON,  AYRSHIRE 48 

The  bridge  over  which  Tarn  o'  Shanter  rode  to  escape 
the  witches. 

GRASMERE  LAKE 60 

"For  rest  of  body  perfect  was  the  spot." 

DOVE  COTTAGE,  GRASMERE 64 

Wordsworth's  home  for  eight  years.  The  view  is  from 
the  garden  in  the  rear  of  the  cottage. 

WORDSWORTH'S  WELL 68 

In  the  garden  of  Dove  Cottage,  where  the  poet  placed 
"bright  go  wan  and  marsh  marigold"  brought  from  the 
border  of  the  lake. 

HAWTHORNDEN 76 

The  home  of  the  Drummond  family,  on  the  banks  of  the 
Esk,  Scotland. 

THE  SYCAMORE 80 

The  tree  at  Hawthornden  under  which  William  Drum- 
mond met  Ben  Jonson. 

RUINS  OF  ROSLIN  CASTLE 86 

In  Roslin  Glen  overlooking  the  Esk. 

MRS.  HUMPHRY  WARD  AND  Miss  DOROTHY  WARD    .    96 
At   the   villa   in    Cadenabbia,  overlooking  Lake    Como, 
where  Mrs.  Ward  wrote  "Lady  Rose's  Daughter." 

"UNDER  LOUGHRIGG" 100 

The  view  from  the  study  window  of  Thomas  Arnold  at 
Fox  How. 

THE  PASSMORE  EDWARDS  SETTLEMENT  HOUSE     .      .  104 
Tavistock  Place,  London. 

THE  LIME  WALK 110 

In  the  garden  of  Trinity  College,  Oxford.  Referred  to  in 
"Robert  Elsmere." 

xii 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

COTTAGE  OP  "MARY  BACKHOUSE" 114 

At  Sad  Gill,  Long  Sleddale.  The  barns  and  storehouses, 
on  either  end,  give  the  small  cottage  an  attenuated  appear- 
ance. 

THE  RECTORY  OP  PEPER  HAROW 118 

In  Surrey,  England.  The  original  of  Murewell  Rectory, 
the  house  of  "Robert  Elsmere." 

THE  ROTHAY  AND  NAB  SCAR 130 

From  Pelter  Bridge,  Ambleside,  England. 

LAKE  COMO .  138 

From  "the  path  that  led  to  the  woods  overhanging  the 
Villa  Carlotta." 

STOCKS 144 

The  home  of  Mrs.  Humphry  Ward,  near  Tring,  England. 

LAKE  MAGGIORE,  ITALY         150 

According  to  Ruskin  the  most  beautiful  of  the  Italian  ] 
Lakes. 

ISOLA  BELLA,  LAKE  MAGGIORE 154 

The  costly  summer  home  of  Count  Vitaliano  Borromeo 
in  the  Seventeenth  Century. 

THE  ATRIUM  OF  THE  VILLA  MARIA 170 

At  Cadenabbia,  Lake  Como. 

"I   CALL  THIS   MY  J.   M.   W.   TURNER"       .         .         .         .174 

View  from  the  dining-room  window  of  the  Villa  Maria. 

THE  OLD  MANSE 180 

In  Concord,  where  Emerson  wrote  "Nature"  and 
Hawthorne  lived  for  three  years. 

WALDEN  WOODS         184 

The  cairn  marks  the  site  of  Thoreau's  hut  and  "  Thoreau's 
Cove  "  is  seen  in  the  distance. 

xiii 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

HOUSE  OF  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON         ....  190 
Concord,  Massachusetts. 

THE  WAYSIDE    : 194 

House  in  Concord,  where  Hawthorne  lived  in  the  latest 
years  of  his  life. 

THE  MALL  STREET  HOUSE  200 

Salem,  Mass.  The  room  in  which  Hawthorne  wrote  "The 
Scarlet  Letter"  is  in  the  third  floor,  front,  on  the  left. 

THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES         ....  204 
The  house  in  Turner  Street,  Salem,  Mass.,  built  in  1669, 
and  owned  by  the  Ingersoll  family. 

THE  BAILEY  HOUSE 208 

The  house  in  Portsmouth,  New  Hampshire,  of  Thomas 
Bailey  Aldrich's  grandfather,  known  as  "Captain  Nutter" 
in  "The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy." 

"AUNT  ABIGAIL'S"  ROOM 212 

In  the  "Nutter"  House. 

AN  OLD  WHARF         216 

On  the  Piscataqua  River,  Portsmouth,  where  Aldrich  often 
played  in  his  boyhood. 

CELTA  THAXTER'S  COTTAGE 224 

On  Appledore,  where  the  poet  maintained  her  famous 
"Island  Garden." 

APPLEDORE 232 

Trap-dike,  on  Appledore,  the  largest  of  the  "Isles  of 
Shoals." 

JOHN  BURROUGHS  AT  WOODCHUCK  LODGE     .      .      .  238 
The  summer  home  of  Mr.  Burroughs  is  near  Roxbury, 
New  York,  in  the  Catskill  Mountains.  When  not  at  work 
he  enjoys  "the  peace  of  the  hills." 

JOHN  BURROUGHS  AT  WORK 244 

The  "study"  is  a  barn,  where  the  naturalist  sits  facing 
xrv 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

the  open  doors.  He  looks  out  upon  a  stone  wall  where  the 
birds  and  small  animals  come  to  "talk  with  him."  The 
"desk"  is  an  old  hen-coop,  with  straw  in  the  bottom,  to 
keep  his  feet  warm. 

HYMEN  TERRACE 254 

At  Mammoth  Hot  Springs  in  the  Yellowstone  National 
Park. 

PULPIT  TERRACE 258 

A  part  of  Jupiter  Terrace,  the  largest  of  the  formations  at 
Mammoth  Hot  Springs. 

OLD  FAITHFUL 264 

The  famous  geyser  in  the  Upper  Geyser  Basin  of  the  Yellow- 
stone National  Park.  It  plays  a  stream  about  one  hundred 
and  fifty  feet  high  every  sixty-five  minutes,  with  but  slight 
variations. 

THE  GROTTO  GEYSER 266 

A  geyser  in  the  Yellowstone  National  Park  notable  for  its 
fantastic  crater. 

THE  CANON  OF  THE  YELLOWSTONE  RIVER     .      .      .  268 
The  view  from  Inspiration  Point. 

THE  TRAIL,  GRAND  CANON 278 

The  view  shows  the  upper  part  of  Bright  Angels'  Trail, 
as  it  appears  when  the  ground  is  covered  with  snow. 

THE  GRAND  CANON  OF  ARIZONA 290 

The  view  from  Bright'  Angels'.  The  plateau  over  which 
the  trail  leads  to  the  edge  of  the  river  is  partly  covered  by 
a  deep  shadow.  The  great  formation  in  the  left  foreground 
is  known  as  the  "Battleship." 


I 

THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 


THE  LURE  OF  THE 
CAMERA 


TWO  pictures,  each  about  the  size  of  a  large 
postage-stamp,  are  among  my  treasured  pos- 
sessions. In  the  first,  a  curly-headed  boy  of  two, 
in  a  white  dress,  is  vigorously  kicking  a  foot- 
ball. The  second  depicts  a  human  wheelbarrow, 
the  body  composed  of  a  sturdy  lad  of  seven, 
whose  two  plump  arms  serve  admirably  the  pur- 
pose of  a  wheel,  his  stout  legs  making  an  excel- 
lent pair  of  handles,  while  the  motive  power  is 
supplied  by  an  equally  robust  lad  of  eight,  who 
grasps  his  younger  brother  firmly  by  the  ankles. 
These  two  photographs,  taken  with  a  camera 
so  small  that  in  operation  it  was  completely  con- 
cealed between  the  palms  of  my  hands,  revealed 
to  me  for  the  first  time  the  fascination  of  ama- 
teur photography.  The  discovery  meant  that 
whatever  interested  me,  even  if  no  more  than 
the  antics  of  my  children,  might  be  instantly  re- 
corded. I  had  no  idea  of  artistic  composition, 
nor  of  the  proper  manipulation  of  plates,  films, 
and  printing  papers.  Still  less  did  I  foresee  that 
the  tiny  little  black  box  contained  the  germ  of 

3 


THE   LURE   OF  THE  CAMERA 

£L-.  indefinable  impulse,  which,  expanding  and 
growing  more  powerful  year  by  year,  was  to  lead 
me  into  fields  which  I  had  never  dreamed  of  ex- 
ploring, into  habits  of  observation  never  before 
a  part  of  my  nature,  and  into  a  knowledge  of 
countless  places  of  historic  and  literary  interest 
as  well  as  natural  beauty  and  grandeur,  which 
would  never  have  been  mine  but  for  the  lure  of 
the  camera. 

The  spell  began  to  make  itself  felt  almost  im- 
mediately. I  determined  to  buy  a  camera  of  my 
own,  —  for  the  two  infinitesimal  pictures  were 
taken  with  a  borrowed  instrument,  —  and  was 
soon  the  possessor  of  a  much  larger  black  box 
capable  of  making  pictures  three  and  a  quarter 
inches  square.  The  film  which  came  with  it  was 
quickly  "  shot  off,"  and  then  came  the  impulse  to 
go  somewhere.  My  wife  and  I  decided  to  spend 
a  day  at  a  pretty  little  inland  lake,  a  few  hours' 
ride  from  our  home.  I  hastened  to  the  druggist's 
to  buy  another  film,  and  without  waiting  to  in- 
sert it  in  the  camera,  off  we  started.  Arrived  on 
the  scene,  our  first  duty  was  to  "  load  "  the  new 
machine.  The  roll  puzzled  us  a  little.  Somehow 
the  directions  did  not  seem  to  fit.  But  we  got  it 
in  place  finally  and  began  to  enjoy  the  pleasures 
of  photography. 

Our  first  view  was  a  general  survey  of  the 
lake,  which  is  nearly  twelve  miles  long,  with  many 
bays  and  indentations  in  the  shore-line,  making 

4 


THE  LURE   OF  THE  CAMERA 

a  rather  large  subject  for  a  picture  only  three 
and  a  quarter  inches  square.  But  such  difficulties 
did  not  seem  formidable.  The  directions  clearly 
intimated  that  if  we  would  only  "  press  the  but- 
ton "  somebody  would  "  do  the  rest,"  and  we 
expected  the  intangible  somebody  to  perform 
his  part  of  the  contract  as  faithfully  as  we  were 
doing  ours.  Years  afterward,  chancing  to  pass 
by  the  British  Museum,  which  stretches  its  huge 
bulk  through  Great  Russell  Street  a  distance  of 
nearly  four  hundred  feet,  we  saw  a  little  girl 
taking  its  picture  with  a  "Brownie"  camera. 
"  That  reminds  me  of  '  Dignity  and  Impu- 
dence,' "  said  my  wife,  referring  to  Landseer's 
well-known  painting  which  we  had  seen  at  the 
National  Gallery  that  afternoon.  This  is  the 
mistake  which  all  amateurs  make  at  first  —  that 
of  expecting  the  little  instrument  to  perform  im- 
possible feats. 

But  to  resume  my  story.  We  spent  a  remark- 
ably pleasant  day  composing  beautiful  views. 
We  shot  at  the  bays  and  the  rocks,  at  the 
steamers  and  the  sail-boats  and  at  everything 
else  in  sight  except  the  huge  ice-houses  which 
disfigure  what  would  otherwise  be  one  of  the 
prettiest  lakes  in  America.  We  posed  for  each 
other  in  picturesque  attitudes  on  the  rocks  and 
in  a  little  rowboat  which  we  had  hired.  We  had 
a  delightful  outing  and  only  regretted  when,  all 
too  soon,  the  last  film  was  exposed.  But  we  felt 

5 


THE   LURE   OF  THE   CAMERA 

unusually  happy  to  think  that  we  had  a  wonder- 
ful record  of  the  day's  proceedings  to  show  to 
our  family  and  friends. 

That  night  I  developed  the  roll,  laboriously 
cutting  off  one  exposure  at  a  time,  and  putting 
it  through  the  developer  according  to  directions. 
Number  one  was  blank !  Something  wrong  with 
the  shutter,  I  thought,  and  tried  the  next.  Num- 
ber two  was  also  blank  ! !  What  can  this  mean  ? 
Perhaps  I  have  n't  developed  it  long  enough. 
So  into  the  fluid  went  another  one,  and  this  one 
stayed  a  long  time.  To  my  dismay  number  three 
was  as  vacant  as  the  others,  and  so  were  all  the 
rest  of  the  twelve.  Early  the  next  morning  I  was 
at  the  drug  store  demanding  an  explanation. 
The  druggist  confessed  that  the  film-roll  he  had 
sold  me  was  intended  for  another  camera,  but 
"  It  ought  to  have  worked  on  yours,"  he  said. 
Subsequent  investigation  proved  that  on  my 
camera  the  film  was  to  be  inserted  on  the  left, 
while  on  the  other  kind  it  went  in  on  the  right. 
This  difference  seemed  insignificant  until  I  dis- 
covered that  in  turning  the  roll  to  insert  it  on 
the  opposite  side  from  what  was  intended,  I  had 
brought  the  strip  of  black  paper  to  the  front  of 
the  film,  thus  preventing  any  exposure  at  all! 
Thus  I  learned  the  first  principle  of  amateur 
photography:  —  Know  exactly  what  you  are 
doing  and  take  no  chances  with  your  appara- 
tus. A  young  lady,  to  whom  I  once  attempted 

6 


THE  LURE  OF  THE   CAMERA 

to  explain  the  use  of  the  various  "  stops "  on 
her  camera,  impatiently  interrupted  me  with  the 
remark,  "  Well,  that 's  the  way  it  was  set  when  I 
got  it  and  I  'm  not  going  to  bother  to  change  it. 
If  the  pictures  are  no  good,  I  '11  send  it  back." 
It  is  such  people  who  continually  complain  of 
"  bad  luck  "  with  their  films. 

It  was  two  or  three  years  after  the  complete 
failure  of  my  first  expedition  before  the  camera 
again  exerted  its  spell,  except  that  meanwhile  it 
was  faithfully  recording  various  performances  of 
the  family,  especially  in  the  vacation  season.  It 
was  in  the  autumn  of  1898.  The  victorious 
American  fleet  had  returned  from  Santiago  and 
all  the  famous  battleships  and  cruisers  were  tri- 
umphantly floating  their  ensigns  in  the  breezes 
of  New  York  Harbor.  "  Here  is  a  rare  opportu- 
nity. Come !  "  said  the  camera.  Taking  passage 
on  a  steamer,  I  found  a  quiet  spot  by  the  life- 
boats, outside  the  rail,  where  the  view  would  be 
unobstructed.  We  passed  in  succession  all  the 
vessels,  from  the  doughty  Texas,  commanded  by 
the  lamented  Captain  Philip,  to  the  proud  Ore- 
gon, with  the  laurels  of  her  long  cruise  around 
Cape  Horn  to  join  in  the  fight.  One  by  one  I 
photographed  them  all.  Here,  at  last,  I  thought, 
are  some  pictures  worth  while.  I  had  been  in  the 
habit  of  doing  my  own  developing — with  indif- 
ferent success,  it  must  be  confessed.  These  ex- 
posures, made  under  ideal  conditions,  were  too 

7 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

precious  to  be  risked,  so  I  took  the  roll  to  a 
prominent  firm  of  dealers  in  photographic  goods, 
for  developing  and  printing.  Every  one  was 
spoiled  !  Not  a  good  print  could  be  found  in  the 
lot.  Impure  chemicals  and  careless  handling  had 
left  yellow  spots  and  finger-marks  on  every  nega- 
tive !  Subsequent  investigation  revealed  the  fact 
that  a  negro  janitor  had  been  entrusted  with 
the  work.  Here,  then,  was  maxim  number  two 
for  the  amateur  —  Do  your  own  developing, 
and  be  sure  to  master  the  details  of  the  opera- 
tion. The  old  adage,  "  If  you  want  a  thing  well 
done,  do  it  yourself,"  applies  with  peculiar  force 
to  photography. 

Another  experience,  which  happened  soon 
after,  came  near  ending  forever  all  further  at- 
tempts in  photography.  This  time  I  lost,  not 
only  the  negatives,  but  the  camera  itself.  Hav- 
ing accomplished  very  little,  I  resolved  to  try  no 
more.  But  a  year  or  two  later  a  friend  offered 
to  sell  me  his  4x5  plate  camera,  with  tripod, 
focusing-cloth  and  all,  at  a  ridiculously  low 
price,  and  enough  of  the  old  fever  remained  to 
make  me  an  easy  —  victim,  shall  I  say?  No! 
How  can  I  ever  thank  him  enough  ?  I  put  my 
head  under  the  focusing-cloth  and  for  the  first 
time  looked  at  the  inverted  image  of  a  beautiful 
landscape,  reflected  in  all  its  colors  upon  the 
ground  glass.  At  that  moment  began  my  real 
experience  in  photography.  The  hand  camera  is 

8 


THE  LURE  OF  THE   CAMERA 

only  a  toy.  A  child  can  use  it  as  well  as  an  ex- 
pert. It  has  its  limitations  like  the  stone  walls  of 
a  prison  yard,  and  beyond  them  one  cannot  go. 
All  is  guesswork.  Luck  is  the  biggest  factor  of 
success.  Artistic  work  is  practically  impossible. 
It  is  not  until  you  begin  to  compose  your  pic- 
tures on  the  ground  glass  that  art  in  photo- 
graphy becomes  a  real  thing.  Then  it  is  amazing 
to  see  how  many  variations  of  the  same  scene 
may  be  obtained,  how  many  different  effects  of 
light  and  shade,  and  how  much  depends  upon 
the  point  of  view.  Then,  too,  one  becomes  more 
independent  of  the  weather,  for  by  a  proper  use 
of  the  "  stop "  and  careful  application  of  the 
principles  of  correct  exposure,  it  is  possible  to 
overcome  many  adverse  conditions. 

An  acquaintance  once  expressed  surprise  that 
I  was  willing  to  spend  day  after  day  of  my  vaca- 
tion walking  about  with  a  heavy  camera  case, 
full  of  plate-holders  in  one  hand,  and  a  bulky 
tripod  slung  over  my  shoulder.  I  replied  that  it 
was  no  heavier  than  a  bagful  of  golf -sticks,  that 
the  walk  took  me  through  an  endless  variety  of 
beautiful  scenery,  and  that  the  game  itself  was 
fascinating.  Of  course,  my  friend  could  not  ap- 
preciate my  point  of  view,  for  he  had  never 
paused  on  the  shore  of  some  sparkling  lake  to 
study  the  ripple  of  the  waters,  the  varying  shades 
of  green  in  the  trees  of  the  nearest  bank,  the 
pebbly  beach  with  smooth  flat  stones  whitening 

9 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

in  the  sun,  but  looking  cooler  and  darker  where 
seen  through  the  transparent  cover  of  the  shallow 
water,  the  deep  purple  of  the  undulating  hills  in 
the  distance,  and  above  it  all  the  canopy  of  filmy, 
foamy  cumulus  clouds,  with  flat  bases  and  rounded 
outlines,  and  here  and  there  a  glimpse  of  the 
loveliest  cerulean  blue.  He  had  never  looked  upon 
such  scenes  as  these  with  the  exhilarating  thought 
that  something  of  the  marvelous  beauty  which 
nature  daily  spreads  before  us  can  be  captured 
and  taken  home  as  a  permanent  reminder  of 
what  we  have  seen. 

To  catch  the  charm  of  such  a  scene  is  no  child's 
play.  It  requires  the  use  of  the  best  of  lenses  and 
other  appliances,  skill  derivable  only  from  long 
study  and  experience,  and  a  natural  appreciation 
of  the  artistic  point  of  view.  It  requires  even 
more,  for  the  plate  must  be  developed  and  the 
prints  made,  both  operations  calling  for  skill  and 
a  sense  of  the  artistic. 

The  underlying  pleasure  in  nearly  all  sports  and 
in  many  forms  of  recreation  is  the  overcoming  of 
obstacles.  The  football  team  must  defeat  a  heavy 
opposing  force  to  gain  any  sense  of  satisfaction. 
If  the  opponents  are  "  easy,"  there  is  no  fun  in 
the  game.  The  hunter  who  incurs  no  hardship 
complains  that  the  sport  is  tame.  A  fisherman 
would  rather  land  one  big  black  bass  after  a  long 
struggle  than  catch  a  hundred  perch  which  almost 
jump  into  your  boat  without  an  invitation. 

10 


A   PATH    IN    BRETTON   WOODS 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

Photography  as  a  sport  possesses  this  element 
in  perfection.  Those  who  love  danger  may  find 
plenty  of  it  in  taking  snap-shots  of  charging 
rhinoceroses,  or  flash-light  pictures  of  lions  and 
tigers  in  the  jungle.  Those  who  like  hunting  may 
find  more  genuine  enjoyment  in  stalking  deer  for 
the  purpose  of  taking  the  animal's  picture  than 
they  would  get  if  they  took  his  life.  Those  who 
care  only  to  hunt  landscapes  —  and  in  this  class 
I  include  myself  —  can  find  all  the  sport  they 
want  in  the  less  strenuous  pursuit.  There  is  not 
only  the  exhilaration  of  searching  out  the  attract- 
ive scenes,  —  the  rugged  mountain-peak ;  the 
woodland  brook ;  the  shady  lane,  with  perhaps  a 
border  of  white  birches ;  the  ruined  castle ;  the 
seaside  cliffs  ;  the  well-concealed  cascade ;  or  the 
scene  of  some  noteworthy  historical  event, — but 
the  art  of  photography  itself  presents  its  own 
problems  at  every  turn.  To  solve  all  these ;  to 
select  the  right  point  of  view ;  to  secure  an  artistic 
"balance"  in  all  parts  of  the  picture;  to  avoid 
the  ugly  things  that  sometimes  persist  in  getting 
in  the  way ;  to  make  due  allowance  for  the  effect 
of  wind  or  motion ;  to  catch  the  full  beauty  of 
the  drifting  clouds ;  to  obtain  the  desired  trans- 
parency in  the  shadows,  —  these  and  a  hundred 
other  considerations  give  sufficient  exercise  to  the 
most  alert  mind  and  add  to  the  never-ending 
fascination  of  the  game. 

I  have  noticed  that  the  camera  does  not  lure 
11 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

one  into  the  beaten  tracks  which  tourists  most 
frequent.  It  is  helpless  on  the  top  of  a  crowded 
coach  or  in  a  swiftly  flying  motor-car.  It  gets 
nervous  when  too  many  people  are  around,  espe- 
cially if  they  are  in  a  hurry,  and  fails  to  do  its 
work.  It  must  be  allowed  to  choose  its  own  paths 
and  to  proceed  with  leisure  and  calmness.  It  is 
a  charming  guide  to  follow.  I  have  always  felt 
a  sense  of  relief  when  able  to  escape  the  inter- 
minable jargon  of  the  professional  guides  who 
conduct  tourists  through  the  various  show  places 
of  Europe,  and  so  far  as  it  has  been  my  fortune 
to  visit  such  places,  have  usually  left  with  a  vague 
feeling  of  disappointment.  On  the  other  hand, 
when,  acting  under  the  spell  of  the  camera,  I  have 
sought  an  acquaintance  with  the  owner  of  some 
famous  house  and  have  proceeded  at  leisure  to 
photograph  the  rooms  and  objects  of  interest,  I 
have  left  not  only  with  a  sense  of  complete  satis- 
faction, but  with  a  new  friendship  to  add  to  the 
pleasure  of  future  memories. 

To  visit  the  places  made  famous  by  their  asso- 
ciations with  literature  and  with  history;  to  seek 
the  wonders  of  nature,  whether  sublime  and  awe- 
inspiring,  like  the  mountain-peaks  of  Switzerland 
and  the  vast  depths  of  the  Grand  Canon,  or  rest- 
ful in  their  sweet  simplicity  like  the  quiet  hills 
and  valleys  of  Westmoreland ;  to  see  the  people 
in  their  homes,  whether  stately  palaces  or  humble 
cottages ;  to  find  new  beauty  daily,  whether  at 

12 


PROFILE   LAKE 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

home  or  abroad,  in  the  shady  woodland  path,  in 
the  sweep  of  the  hills  and  the  ever-changing 
panorama  of  the  clouds ;  to  gain  that  relief  from 
the  cares  of  business  or  professional  life  which 
comes  from  opening  the  mind  to  a  free  and  full 
contemplation  of  the  picturesque  and  beautiful, 
—  these  are  the  possibilities  offered  by  amateur 
photography  to  those  who  will  follow  the  lure  of 
the  camera. 


II 

LITEKAKY  EAMBLES  IN  GREAT  BRITAIN 


II 

LITERARY  RAMBLES  IN  GREAT  BRITAIN 
I 

EMERSON  said  of  the  English  people, "  Every 
one  of  these  islanders  is  an  island  himself, 
safe,  tranquil,  incommunicable,"  and  that  "It  is 
almost  an  affront  to  look  a  man  in  the  face  without 
being  introduced."  Holmes,  on  the  contrary,  re- 
cords that  he  and  his  daughter  were  "  received 
with  nothing  but  the  most  overflowing  hospital- 
ity and  the  most  considerate  kindness."  Lowell 
found  the  average  Briton  likely  to  regard  himself 
as  "  the  only  real  thing  in  a  wilderness  of  shams," 
and  thought  his  patronage  "divertingly  insuf- 
ferable." On  the  other  hand,  he  praised  the  gen- 
uineness of  the  better  men  of  England,  as  "  so 
manly-tender,  so  brave,  so  true,  so  warranted  to 
wear,  they  make  us  proud  to  feel  that  blood  is 
thicker  than  water."  Longfellow  met  at  dinner 
on  two  successive  days  what  he  called  "  the  two 
opposite  poles  of  English  character."  One  of 
them  was  "taciturn,  reserved,  fastidious"  and 
without  "  power  of  enjoyment " ;  the  other  was 
"  expansive,  hilarious,  talking  incessantly,  laugh- 
ing loud  and  long."  All  of  this  suggests  that  in 
attempting  to  write  one's  impressions  of  the 

17 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

English  or  any  other  people,  one  must  remember, 
what  I  once  heard  a  Western  schoolmaster  de- 
clare with  great  emphasis  —  "some  people  are 
not  all  alike ! " 

I  have  but  one  impression  to  record,  namely, 
that,  almost  without  exception,  the  people  whom 
we  met,  both  in  England  and  Scotland,  mani- 
fested a  spirit  of  helpfulness  that  made  our  pho- 
tographic work  delightful  and  led  to  the  accom- 
plishment of  results  not  otherwise  obtainable. 
They  not  only  showed  an  unexpected  interest  in 
our  work,  but  seemed  to  feel  some  sense  of  obli- 
gation to  assist.  This  was  true  even  of  the  police- 
man at  the  gate  of  the  Tower  of  London,  who, 
according  to  his  orders,  deprived  me  of  my  camera 
before  I  could  enter.  But  upon  my  protesting, 
he  referred  me  to  another  guardian  of  the  place, 
and  he  to  another,  until,  continuing  to  pass 
"  higher  up,"  I  was  at  last  photographing  every- 
thing of  interest,  including  the  "  Beef  -Eater  " 
who  obligingly  carried  my  case  of  plates.  When- 
ever difficulties  arose,  these  helpful  people  always 
seemed  ready  with  suggestions.  It  seemed  to  be 
more  than  courtesy.  It  was  rather  a  friendly  sym- 
pathy, a  desire  that  I  might  have  what  I  came 
for,  and  a  kind  of  personal  anxiety  that  I  should 
not  be  disappointed. 

An  incident  which  happened  at  the  very  out- 
set of  our  photographic  experiences  in  England, 
and  one  which  was  responsible  in  large  measure 

18 


RAMBLES  IN  GREAT  BRITAIN 

for  much  of  the  success  of  that  undertaking,  will 
serve  as  an  example  of  the  genial  and  sympa- 
thetic spirit  which  seemed  to  be  everywhere 
prevalent.  We  had  started  to  discover  and  to 
photograph,  so  far  as  possible,  the  scenes  of 
George  Eliot's  writings,  and  on  the  day  of  our 
arrival  in  London,  my  wife  had  found  in  the 
British  Museum  a  particularly  interesting  por- 
trait of  George  Henry  Lewes.  She  learned  that 
permission  to  copy  it  must  be  obtained  from  the 
Keeper  of  the  Prints,  and  accordingly,  on  the 
following  morning  I  appeared  in  the  great  room 
of  the  Museum  where  thousands  of  rare  prints 
are  carefully  preserved. 

Sir  Sidney  Colvin,  the  distinguished  biogra- 
pher of  Robert  Louis  Stevenson,  and  the  head  of 
this  department*  was  not  in,  but  a  polite  assist- 
ant made  note  of  my  name  and  message,  making 
at  the  same  time  an  appointment  for  the  next  day. 
At  the  precise  hour  named  I  was  present  again, 
revolving  in  my  mind  the  briefest  possible  method 
of  requesting  permission  to  copy  the  Lewes  pic- 
ture. Presently  I  was  informed  that  Mr.  Colvin 
wished  to  see  me,  and  I  followed  the  guide,  me- 
chanically repeating  to  myself  the  little  formula 
or  speech  I  intended  to  make,  and  wondering 
what  luck  I  should  have.  The  formula  disap- 
peared instantly  as  a  pleasant-faced  gentleman  ad- 
vanced with  outstretched  hand  and  genial  smile, 
calling  me  by  name  and  saying,  "  I  have  some- 

19 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

thing  I  want  to  show  you,  if  you  would  care  to 
see  it."  Considerably  surprised,  I  saw  him  touch 
a  button  as  he  resumed,  — "  It 's  a  picture  of 
George  Eliot,  —  at  least  we  think  it  is,  but  we 
are  not  sure,  —  we  bought  it  from  the  executor 
of  the  estate  of  Sir  Frederic  Burton,  the  artist." 
Here  the  attendant  appeared  and  was  instructed 
to  get  the  portrait.  It  proved  to  be  a  large  paint- 
ing in  water-colors  of  a  woman's  face,  with  re- 
markably strong,  almost  masculine  features  and 
a  pair  of  eyes  that  seemed  to  say,  "  If  any  woman 
in  the  world  can  do  a  man's  thinking,  I  'm  that 
person."  A  letter  received  subsequently,  in  an- 
swer to  my  inquiry,  from  Sir  Theodore  Martin, 
who  was  a  lifelong  friend  of  the  novelist  as  well 
as  the  painter,  definitely  established  the  fact  that 
the  newly  discovered  portrait  was  a  "  study  "  for 
the  authorized  portrait  which  Sir  Frederic  Burton 
painted.  No  doubt  the  artist  came  to  realize  more 
of  the  true  womanliness  of  George  Eliot's  char- 
acter, for  he  certainly  softened  the  expression  of 
those  determined-looking  eyes. 

After  we  had  discussed  the  picture  at  some 
length,  my  new-found  friend  inquired  about  my 
plans.  I  told  him  I  meant  to  visit,  so  far  as  pos- 
sible, the  scenes  of  George  Eliot's  novels  and  to 
photograph  all  the  various  places  of  interest. 
"  Of  course  you  '11  go  to  Nuneaton  ?  "  he  asked. 
"  Yes,"  I  replied,  in  a  tone  of  assurance ;  "  I  ex- 
pect to  visit  Arbury  Hall,  the  original  of  Cheverel 

20 


RAMBLES  IN  GREAT  BRITAIN 

Manor."  "  I  suppose,  then,  you  are  acquainted 
with  Mr.  Newdegate,"  said  he,  inquiringly.  I  had 
to  confess  that  I  did  not  know  the  gentleman. 
Mr.  Colvin  looked  at  me  in  surprise.  "  Why,  you 
can't  get  in  if  you  don't  know  him.  Arbury  is 
a  private  estate."  This  remark  struck  me  with 
stunning  force.  I  had  supposed  I  could  go  any- 
where. The  game  was  a  new  one  to  me,  and  here 
at  the  very  beginning  appeared  to  be  an  insur- 
mountable barrier.  Of  course,  I  could  not  ex- 
pect to  walk  into  private  houses  and  grounds  to 
make  photographs,  and  how  was  I  to  make  the 
acquaintance  of  these  people  ?  Mr.  Colvin  seemed 
to  read  my  thought  and  promptly  solved  the 
problem.  "I  happen  to  know  Mr.  Newdegate 
well.  He  was  a  classmate  at  Oxford.  I  '11  give 
you  a  letter  of  introduction.  —  No,  I  '11  do  better. 
I  '11  write  and  tell  him  you  're  coming." 

This  courtesy,  from  a  gentleman  to  whom  I 
was  a  complete  stranger,  was  as  welcome  as  it  was 
unexpected,  and  nearly  caused  me  to  forget  the 
original  purpose  of  my  call.  But  Mr.  Colvin  did 
not  forget.  As  I  was  about  to  leave,  he  asked  if 
I  wished  a  copy  of  the  Eliot  portrait  and  added, 
"  Of  course,  you  will  have  permission  to  copy  the 
Lewes  picture  "  ;  and  the  interview  ended  with 
his  promise  to  have  the  official  photographer 
make  me  copies  of  both.  I  returned  to  the  hotel  to 
report  that  the  Lewes  picture  had  been  obtained 
without  even  asking  for  it,  and  the  next  morning 

21 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

received  a  message  from  the  owner  of  Arbury 
Hall  cordially  inviting  us  to  visit  him. 

Of  Arbury  itself  I  knew  little,  but  I  had  read, 
somewhere,  that  the  full-length  portraits  of  Sir 
Christopher  Cheverel  and  his  lady  by  Sir  Joshua 
Reynolds,  which  George  Eliot  describes  as  hang- 
ing side  by  side  in  the  great  saloon  of  Cheverel 
Manor,  might  still  be  seen  at  Arbury.  I  was, 
therefore,  eager  to  find  them. 

We  lost  no  time  in  proceeding  to  Nuneaton, 
where  we  passed  the  night  at  the  veritable  tavern 
which  was  the  scene  of  Lawyer  Dempster's  con- 
viviality. Readers  of  "Janet's  Repentance"  will 
recall  that  the  great  "  man  of  deeds  "  addressed 
the  mob  in  the  street  from  an  upper  window  of 
the  "  Red  Lion,"  protesting  against  the  "  temp- 
tation to  vice"  involved  in  the  proposition  to 
hold  Sunday  evening  lectures  in  the  church.  He 
brought  the  meeting  to  a  close  by  calling  for 
"  Three  cheers  for  True  Religion  " ;  then  retiring 
with  a  party  of  friends  to  the  parlor  of  the  inn, 
he  caused  "  the  most  capacious  punch-bowl "  to 
be  brought  out  and  continued  the  festivities  until 
after  midnight,  "  when  several  friends  of  sound 
religion  were  conveyed  home  with  some  difficulty, 
one  of  them  showing  a  dogged  determination  to 
seat  himself  in  the  gutter." 

The  old  tavern,  one  of  the  few  which  still  re- 
tain the  old-fashioned  arched  doorways  through 
which  the  coaches  used  to  enter  to  change  horses, 

22 


RAMBLES  IN  GREAT  BRITAIN 

boasts  of  having  entertained  guests  no  less  dis- 
tinguished than  Oliver  Cromwell  and  the  immortal 
Shakespeare.  My  wife  said  she  was  sure  this  was 
true,  for  the  house  smelled  as  if  it  had  not  been 
swept  since  Shakespeare's  time. 

In  the  morning  we  drove  to  Arbury  Hall,  the 
private  grounds  of  which  make  a  beautifully 
wooded  park  of  three  hundred  acres.  The  man- 
sion is  seen  to  the  best  advantage  from  the  oppo- 
site side  of  a  little  pool,  where  the  surrounding 
trees  and  shrubbery  are  pleasantly  reflected  in 
the  still  water,  where  marsh-grass  and  rushes  are 
waving  gently  in  the  summer  air,  and  the  pond- 
lilies  spread  their  round  green  leaves  to  make 
a  richer,  deeper  background  for  their  blossoms 
of  purest  white.  On  a  green  knoll  behind  this 
charming  foreground  stands  a  gray  stone  man- 
sion of  rectangular  shape,  its  sharp  corners  soft- 
ened with  ivy  and  by  the  foliage  at  either  end. 
Three  great  gothic  windows  in  the  center,  flanked 
on  both  ends  by  slightly  projecting  wings,  each 
with  a  double-storied  oriel,  and  a  multitude  of  pin- 
nacles surmounting  the  walls  on  every  side,  give 
a  distinguished  air  to  the  building,  as  though  it 
were  a  part  of  some  great  cathedral.  This  Gothic 
aspect  was  imparted  to  the  mansion  something 
over  a  hundred  years  ago  by  Sir  Roger  Newdi- 
gate,  who  was  the  prototype  of  George  Eliot's  Sir 
Christopher  Cheverel,  and  the  novelist  describes 
the  place  as  if  in  the  process  of  remodeling. 

23 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

We  were  cordially  welcomed  by  the  present 
owner,  Mr.  Newdegate,  whose  hospitality  doubly 
confirmed  our  first  impressions  of  British  cour- 
tesy. After  some  preliminary  conversation  we 
rose  to  begin  a  tour  of  inspection.  Our  host  threw 
open  a  door  and  instantly  we  were  face  to  face 
with  the  two  full-length  portraits  of  Sir  Christo- 
pher and  Lady  Cheverel,  which  for  so  long  had 
stood  in  my  mind  as  the  only  known  objects  of 
interest  at  Arbury.  They  are  the  work,  by  the 
way,  not  of  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  but  of  George 
Romney.  George  Eliot  wrote  from  memory,  prob- 
ably a  full  score  of  years  after  her  last  visit  to 
the  place,  and  this  is  one  of  several  slight  mis- 
takes. These  fine  portraits,  really  representing 
Sir  Roger  Newdigate  and  his  lady,  hang  at  the 
end  of  a  large  and  sumptuously  furnished  room, 
with  high  vaulted  ceiling  in  the  richest  Gothic 
style,  suggesting  in  the  intricate  delicacy  of  its 
tracery  the  famous  Chapel  of  Henry  VII  in  West- 
minster Abbey.  The  saloon,  as  the  apartment  is 
called,  is  lighted  chiefly  by  a  large  bay  window,  the 
very  one  through  which  Sir  Christopher  stepped 
into  the  room  and  found  various  members  of  his 
household  "  examining  the  progress  of  the  un- 
finished ceiling." 

Looking  out  through  these  windows,  our  host 
noticed  some  gathering  clouds  and  suggested  a 
drive  through  the  park  before  the  shower.  Soon 
his  pony-cart  was  at  the  door,  drawn  by  a  dainty 

24 


RAMBLES  IN  GREAT  BRITAIN 

little  horse  appropriately  named  "  Lightheart," 
for  no  animal  with  so  fond  a  master  could  possi- 
bly have  a  care  in  the  world.  We  stopped  for  a  few 
minutes  at  Astley  Castle,  the  "  Knebley  Abbey  " 
of  George  Eliot,  an  old  but  picturesque  mansion, 
once  the  residence  of  the  famous  Lord  Seymour 
and  his  ill-fated  protegee,  Lady  Jane  Grey.  Then, 
after  a  brief  pause  at  the  parson's  cottage,  we 
proceeded  to  Astley  Church,  a  stone  building 
with  a  square  tower  such  as  one  sees  throughout 
England. 

A  flock  of  sheep  pasturing  in  the  inclosure 
suggested  George  Eliot's  bucolic  parson,  the  Rev- 
erend Mr.  Gilfil,  who  smoked  his  pipe  with  the 
farmers  and  talked  of  "short-horns  "  and  "shar- 
rags"and  "yowes"  during  the  week,  and  on 
Sunday  after  Sunday  repeated  the  same  old  ser- 
mons to  the  ever-increasing  satisfaction  of  his 
parishioners.  We  photographed  this  ancient 
temple  on  the  inside  as  well  as  outside,  for  it 
contains  some  curious  frescoes  representing  the 
saints  holding  ribbons  with  mottoes  from  which 
one  is  expected  to  obtain  excellent  moral  les- 
sons. 

Our  next  objective  was  the  birthplace  of 
George  Eliot,  a  small  cottage  standing  in  one 
corner  of  the  park.  We  were  driving  rapidly 
along  one  of  the  smooth  roads  leading  to  the  place, 
when  the  pony  made  a  sudden  turn  to  the  right. 
I  was  sitting  on  the  rear  seat,  facing  backward, 

25 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

camera  and  tripod  in  hand.  The  cart  went  down 
a  steep  embankment,  then  up  again,  and  the  next 
instant  I  was  sprawled  ignominiously  on  the 
ground,  while  near  by  lay  the  tripod,  broken  into 
a  hundred  splinters.  Scrambling  to  my  feet,  I 
saw  the  pony-cart  stuck  tight  in  the  mud  of  a 
ditch  not  far  away,  my  wife  and  our  host  still  on 
the  seat,  and  nobody  the  worse  for  the  accident 
except  poor  Lightheart,  who  was  almost  overcome 
with  excitement.  He  had  encountered  some  men 
on  the  road  leading  a  bull,  and  quickly  resolved 
not  to  face  what,  to  one  of  his  gentle  breeding, 
seemed  a  deadly  peril. 

Leading  the  trembling  Lightheart,  we  walked 
back  to  the  house,  and  in  due  season  sat  down  to 
luncheon  beneath  the  high  vaulted  ceiling  of  that 
splendid  dining-room,  which  George  Eliot  thought 
" looked  less  like  a  place  to  dine  in  than  a  piece 
of  space  inclosed  simply  for  the  sake  of  beautiful 
outline."  A  cathedral-like  aspect  is  given  to  the 
room  by  the  great  Gothic  windows  which  form 
the  distinguishing  architectural  feature  of  the 
building.  These  open  into  an  alcove,  large  enough 
in  itself,  but  small  when  compared  with  the  main 
part  of  the  room.  The  ecclesiastical  effect  is 
heightened  by  the  rich  Gothic  ornamentation  of 
the  canopies  built  over  various  niches  in  the  walls, 
or  rather  it  would  be,  were  it  not  for  the  fact 
that  the  latter  are  filled  with  life-size  statues  in 
white  marble,  of  a  distinctly  classical  character. 

26 


RAMBLES  IN  GREAT  BRITAIN 

Opposite  the  windows  is  a  mantel  of  generous 
proportions,  in  pure  white,  the  rich  decorations  of 
which  would  not  be  inappropriate  for  some  fine 
altar-piece ;  but  Cupid  and  Psyche,  standing  in 
a  carved  niche  above,  instantly  dissipate  any 
churchly  thoughts,  though  they  seem  to  be 
having  a  heavenly  time. 

After  luncheon  we  sat  for  a  time  in  the  library, 
in  the  left  wing  of  the  building,  examining  a  first 
folio  Shakespeare,  while  our  host  busied  himself 
with  various  notes  of  introduction  and  other 
memoranda  for  our  benefit.  As  we  sat  in  the 
oriel  window  of  this  room,  —  the  same  in  which 
Sir  Christopher  received  the  Widow  Hartopp, — 
we  noticed  what  appeared  to  be  magazines,  fans, 
and  other  articles  on  the  chairs  and  sofas.  They 
proved  to  be  embroidered  in  the  upholstery.  It 
is  related  that  Sir  Roger  Newdigate  —  "  Sir  Chris- 
topher Cheverel,"  it  will  be  remembered  —  used 
to  remonstrate  with  his  lady  for  leaving  her  be- 
longings scattered  over  his  library.  She  —  good 
woman  —  was  not  only  obedient,  but  possessed 
a  sense  of  humor  as  well,  for  she  promptly  re- 
moved the  articles,  but  later  took  advantage  of 
her  lord's  absence  to  leave  their  "counterfeit 
presentment"  in  such  permanent  form  that  there 
they  have  remained  for  more  than  a  century. 

The  opposite  wing  of  the  mansion  contains 
the  drawing-room,  adjoining  the  saloon.  It  is 
lighted  by  an  oriel  window  corresponding  to  that 

27 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

in  the  library.  The  walls  are  decorated  with  a 
series  of  long  narrow  panels,  united  at  the  top  by 
intricate  combinations  of  graceful  pointed  arches, 
in  keeping  with  the  Gothic  style  of  the  whole 
building.  It  was  curious  to  note  how  well  George 
Eliot  remembered  it,  for  here  was  the  full-length 
portrait  of  Sir  Anthony  Cheverel  "  standing  with 
one  arm  akimbo,"  exactly  as  described.  How  did 
the  novelist  happen  to  remember  that  "arm 
akimbo/'  if,  as  is  quite  likely,  she  had  not  seen 
the  room  for  more  than  twenty  years  ? 

It  was  in  this  room  that  Catarina  sat  down  to 
the  harpsichord  and  poured  out  her  emotions  in 
the  deep  rich  tones  of  a  fine  contralto  voice.  The 
harpsichord  upon  which  the  real  Catarina  played 
—  her  name  was  Sally  Shilton — is  now  upstairs 
in  the  long  gallery,  and  here  we  saw  not  only 
that  interesting  instrument,  but  also  the  "  queer 
old  family  portraits  ...  of  faded,  pink-faced 
ladies,  with  rudimentary  features  and  highly 
developed  head-dresses  —  of  gallant  gentlemen, 
with  high  hips,  high  shoulders,  and  red  pointed 
beards." 

Mr.  Newdegate,  with  that  fine  spirit  of  help- 
fulness that  we  had  met  in  his  friend  Mr.  Col- 
vin,  informed  us  that  he  had  invited  the  Rever- 
end Frederick  R.  Evans,  Canon  of  Bedworth,  a 
nephew  of  George  Eliot,  to  meet  us  at  luncheon, 
but  an  engagement  had  interfered.  We  were  in- 
vited, however,  to  visit  the  rectory  at  Bedworth, 

28 


RAMBLES  IN  GREAT  BRITAIN 

and  later  did  so,  receiving  a  cordial  welcome. 
Mrs.  Evans  took  great  delight  in  showing  vari- 
ous mementoes  of  her  husband's  distinguished 
relative,  including  a  lace  cap  worn  by  George 
Eliot  and  a  pipe  that  once  belonged  to  the  Count- 
ess Czerlaski  of  "The  Sad  Fortune  of  the  Rev- 
erend Amos  Barton."  I  can  still  hear  the  ring 
of  her  hearty  laugh  as  she  took  us  into  the  parlor, 
and  pointing  to  a  painting  on  the  wall,  exclaimed, 
"  And  here  is  Aunt  Glegg ! "  There  she  was,  sure 
enough,  with  the  "fuzzy  front  of  curls"  which 
were  always  "  economized  "  by  not  wearing  them 
until  after  10.30  A.M.  At  this  point  the  canon 
suddenly  asked, "  Have  you  seen  the  stone  table?" 
I  had  been  looking  for  this  table.  It  is  the  one 
where  Mr.  Casaubon  sat  when  Dorothea  found 
him,  apparently  asleep,  but  really  dead,  as  dramat- 
ically told  in  "Middlemarch."  I  had  expected  to 
find  it  at  Griff  House,  near  Nuneaton,  the  home 
of  George  Eliot's  girlhood,  but  the  arbor  at  the 
end  of  the  Yew  Tree  Walk  was  empty.  We  were 
quite  pleased,  therefore,  when  Mr.  Evans  took  us 
into  his  garden  and  there  showed  us  the  original 
table  of  stone  which  the  novelist  had  in  mind 
when  she  wrote  the  incident. 

Among  the  other  things  Mr.  Newdegate  had 
busied  himself  in  writing,  while  we  sat  in  his 
library,  was  a  message  to  a  friend  in  Nuneaton, 

Dr.  N ,  who,  he  said,  knew  more  about  George 

Eliot  than  any  one  else  in  the  neighborhood.  We 

29 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

accordingly  stopped  our  little  coupe  at  the  doc- 
tor's door,  as  we  drove  back  to  town.  He  insisted 
upon  showing  us  the  landmarks,  and  as  there  was 
no  room  in  our  vehicle,  mounted  his  bicycle  and 
told  the  driver  to  follow.  In  this  way  we  were 
able  to  identify  nearly  all  the  localities  of  "Amos 
Barton"  and  "Janet's  Repentance."  He  also 
pointed  out  the  schoolhouse  where  Mary  Ann 
Evans  was  a  pupil  in  her  eighth  or  ninth  year. 
We  arrived  just  as  school  was  dismissed  and  a 
crowd  of  modern  school  children  insisted  upon 
adding  their  bright  rosy  faces  to  our  picture. 
They  looked  so  fresh  and  interesting  that  I  made 
no  objection. 

On  the  next  evening  we  were  entertained  by 
the  doctor  and  his  wife  at  their  home.  A  picture 
of  Nuneaton  fifty  years  ago  attracted  my  notice. 
The  doctor  explained  that  the  artist,  when  a 
young  girl,  had  known  George  Eliot's  father  and 
mother,  and  had  been  interested  to  paint  various 
scenes  of  the  earlier  stories.  He  advised  us  not 
to  call,  because  the  old  lady  was  very  feeble.  What 
was  my  astonishment  when,  upon  returning  to 
London  a  few  weeks  later,  I  found  a  letter  from 
this  same  good  lady,  expressing  regret  that  she  had 
not  met  us,  and  stating  that  she  was  sending  me 
twenty-five  of  her  water-color  sketches.  Among 
them  were  sketches  of  John  and  Emma  Gwyther, 
the  original  Amos  and  Milly  Barton,  drawn  from 
life  many  years  ago.  Later  she  sent  me  a  portrait 

30 


RAMBLES  IN  GREAT  BRITAIN 

of  Nanny,  the  housemaid  who  drove  away  the 
bogus  countess.  These  dear  people  seemed  deter- 
mined to  make  our  quest  a  success. 

We  now  turned  our  attention  to  "  Adam 
Bede,"  traveling  into  Staffordshire  and  Derby- 
shire, where  Robert  Evans,  the  novelist's  father 
and  the  prototype  of  Adam  Bede,  was  born  and 
spent  the  years  of  his  young  manhood.  Here 
again  we  were  assisted  by  good-natured  English 
people.  The  first  was  a  station  agent.  Just  as 
the  twilight  was  dissolving  into  a  jet-black  night 
we  alighted  from  the  train  at  the  little  hamlet  of 
Norbury,  with  a  steamer  trunk,  several  pieces 
of  hand-baggage,  a  camera,  and  an  assortment 
of  umbrellas.  We  expected  to  go  to  Ellastone, 
two  miles  away,  the  original  of  Hayslope,  the 
home  of  Adam  Bede,  and  the  real  home,  a  cen- 
tury ago,  of  Robert  Evans.  After  the  train  left, 
the  only  person  in  sight  was  the  station  agent, 
who  looked  with  some  surprise  at  the  pile  of 
luggage. 

In  reply  to  our  question,  he  recommended 
walking  as  the  best  and  only  way  to  reach  Ella- 
stone.  A  stroll  of  two  miles,  over  an  unknown 
and  muddy  road,  in  inky  darkness,  with  two  or 
three  hundred  pounds  of  luggage  to  carry,  did 
not  appeal  to  us,  particularly  as  it  was  now  be- 
ginning to  rain.  We  suggested  a  carriage,  but 
there  was  none.  Hotel?  Norbury  boasted  no 
such  conveniences.  It  began  to  look  as  though 

31 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

we  might  be  obliged  to  camp  out  in  the  rain  on 
the  station  platform.  But  the  good-natured  agent, 
whose  day's  work  was  now  done,  and  who  was 
anxious  to  go  home  to  his  supper,  placed  the 
ticket-office,  where  there  was  a  fire,  at  our  dis- 
posal, and  a  boy  was  found  who  was  willing  to 
go  to  Ellastone  on  his  bicycle  and  learn  whether 
the  inn  was  open  (the  agent  thought  not), 
and  if  so,  whether  any  one  there  would  send 
a  carriage  for  us.  A  long  wait  of  an  hour  en- 
sued, during  which  we  congratulated  ourselves 
that  if  we  had  to  sleep  on  the  floor  of  the  ticket- 
office,  it  would  at  least  be  dryer  than  the  plat- 
form. At  last  the  boy  returned  with  the  news 
that  the  inn  was  not  open,  but  that  a  carriage 
would  be  sent  for  us !  After  another  seemingly 
interminable  delay,  we  finally  heard  the  welcome 
sound  of  wheels  on  the  gravel.  Our  carriage  had 
arrived  !  It  was  a  butcher's  cart.  When  the  bag- 
gage was  thrown  in,  there  was  but  one  seat  left 
—  the  one  beside  the  driver.  Small  chance  for 
two  fairly  good-sized  passengers,  but  there  was 
only  one  solution.  I  climbed  in  and  took  the  only 
remaining  seat,  while  my  knees  automatically 
formed  another  one  which  my  companion  in 
misery  promptly  appropriated,  and  away  we  went, 
twisting  and  turning  through  a  wet  and  muddy 
lane,  so  dark  that  the  only  visible  part  of  the 
horse  was  his  tail,  the  mud  flying  into  our  faces 
from  one  direction  and  the  rain  from  another, 

32 


RAMBLES  IN  GREAT  BRITAIN 

but  happy  in  the  hope  and  expectation  that  if 
the  cart  did  not  turn  over  and  throw  us  into  the 
hedges,  we  should  soon  find  a  better  place  for  a 
night's  lodging  than  a  country  railway  station. 

In  due  time  we  reached  the  inn,  the  very  one 
before  which  Mr.  Casson,  the  landlord,  stood  and 
invited  Adam  Bede  to  "step  in  an'  tek  some- 
think."  We  were  greeted  with  equal  hospitality 
by  the  landlord's  wife,  who  ushered  us  into  the 
"best  parlor,"  kindled  a  rousing  fire  in  the  grate 
(English  fires  are  not  usually  "rousing"),  and 
asked  what  we  would  have  for  supper.  By  the 
time  the  mud  had  dried  in  nice  hard  lozenges  on 
our  clothing,  an  excellent  meal  was  on  the  table. 
It  disappeared  with  such  promptness  as  to  bring 
tears  of  gratitude  to  the  eyes  of  the  cook —  none 
other  than  the  hospitable  landlady  herself.  We 
then  found  ourselves  settled  for  the  night  in  a 
large,  airy,  and  particularly  clean  bedroom,  the 
best  chamber  in  the  house.  "  Oh,  no,  sir,  the  inn 
is  not  open,"  explained  our  good  Samaritan,  "but 
we  're  always  glad  to  make  strangers  comfort- 
able." These  words  indicate  the  spirit  of  the 
remark,  which  we  comprehended  because  helped 
by  the  good  lady's  eyes,  her  smile,  and  her  ges- 
tures. I  cannot  set  down  the  exact  words  for  the 
reasons  set  forth  by  Mr.  Casson,  George  Eliot's 
landlord  of  the  Donnithorne  Arms,  who  said  to 
Adam  :  "  They  're  cur'ous  talkers  i'  this  country ; 
the  gentry  's  hard  work  to  hunderstand  'em }  I 

33 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

was  brought  hup  among  the  gentry,  sir,  an'  got 
the  turn  o'  their  tongue  when  I  was  a  bye.  Why, 
what  do  you  think  the  folks  here  says  for  '  hev  n't 
you'? — the  gentry,  you  know,  says,  ' hev  n't 
you '  —  well,  the  people  about  here  says,  '  hanna 
yey.'  It 's  what  they  call  the  dileck  as  is  spoke 
hereabout,  sir." 

It  was  curious  to  note,  when  we  explored  the 
village  the  next  morning,  that  Ellastone  is  even 
now  apparently  just  the  same  little  hamlet  it  was 
in  the  time  of  George  Eliot's  father.  I  had  never 
expected  to  find  the  real  Hayslope.  I  supposed, 
of  course,  that  it  would  be  swallowed  up  by 
some  big  manufacturing  town.  But  here  it  was 
exactly  as  represented  —  except  that  Adam  Bede's 
cottage  has  been  enlarged  and  repainted  and  a 
few  small  houses  now  occupy  the  village  green 
where  Dinah  Morris  preached.  The  parish  church, 
with  its  square  stone  tower  and  clock  of  orthodox 
style,  still  remains  the  chief  landmark  of  the  vil- 
lage as  it  was  on  the  day  in  1801  when  Robert 
Evans  married  his  first  wife,  Harriet  Poynton,  a 
servant  in  the  Newdigate  family,  by  whom  the 
young  man  was  also  employed  as  a  carpenter. 
Mr.  Francis  Newdigate,  the  great-grandfather  of 
our  friend  at  Arbury,  lived  in  Wootton  Hall  and 
was  the  original  of  the  old  squire  in  "Adam 
Bede."  This  fine  old  estate  was  the  Donnithorne 
Chase  of  the  novel,  and  therefore  we  found  it 
worthy  of  a  visit.  We  found  the  fine  old  "hoaks" 

34 


RAMBLES  IN  GREAT  BRITAIN 

there,  which  Mr.  Casson  mentioned  to  Adam, 
and  with  them  some  equally  fine  elms  and  a  pro- 
fusion of  flowers,  the  latter  tastefully  arranged 
about  a  series  of  broad  stone  terraces,  stained 
with  age  and  partly  covered  with  ivy,  which  gave 
the  place  the  dignified  aspect  of  some  ancient 
palace  of  the  nobility.  Much  to  our  regret  the 
owner  was  not  at  home,  but  the  gardener  main- 
tained the  hitherto  unbroken  chain  of  courtesy 
by  showing  us  the  beauties  of  the  place  from  all 
the  best  points  of  view. 

It  has  not  been  my  intention  to  follow  in  de- 
tail the  events  of  our  exploration  of  the  country 
of  George  Eliot,  nor  to  describe  the  many  scenes 
of  varied  interest  which  were  gradually  unfolded 
to  us.  I  have  sought  rather  to  suggest  what  is 
likely  to  happen  to  an  amateur  photographer  in 
search  of  pictures,  and  how  such  a  quest  becomes 
a  real  pleasure  when  the  people  one  meets  mani- 
fest a  genuine  interest  and  a  spirit  of  friendly 
helpfulness  such  as  we  experienced  almost  invari- 
ably. 

n 

There  were  some  occasions  upon  which  the 
chain  of  courtesy,  to  which  I  have  previously 
referred,  if  not  actually  broken,  received  some 
dangerous  strains,  when  great  care  had  to  be 
taken  lest  it  snap  asunder.  There  are  surly  but- 
lers and  keepers  in  England  as  elsewhere,  and  we 

35 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

encountered  one  of  the  species  in  the  Lake  Dis- 
trict. I  had  called  at  the  country  residence  of 
Captain ,  a  wealthy  gentleman  and  a  mem- 
ber of  Parliament.  The  place  was  celebrated  for 
its  wonderful  gardens  and  is  described  in  one  of 
the  novels  of  Mrs.  Humphry  Ward.  His  High- 
and-Mightiness,  the  Butler,  was  suffering  from  a 
severe  attack  of  the  Grouch,  resulting  in  a  stiffen- 
ing of  the  muscles  of  the  back  and  shoulders. 
He  would  do  nothing  except  inform  me  that  his 
Master  was  "not  at  'ome."  I  could  only  leave  a 
message  and  say  I  would  return.  The  next  day 
I  was  greeted  by  the  same  Resplendent  Person, 
his  visage  suffused  with  smiles  and  his  spinal 
column  oscillating  like  an  inverted  pendulum. 

"  Captain is    ex-treme-ly  sorry   he   cawnt 

meet  you,  sir.  He  's  obliged  to  be  in  Lunnun  to- 
day, sir,  but  he  towld  me  to  sai  to  you,  sir,  that 
you  're  to  talk  everythink  in  the  'ouse  you  want, 
sir."  And  then  the  Important  One  gave  me  full 
possession  while  I  photographed  the  most  inter- 
esting rooms,  coming  back  occasionally  to  in- 
quire whether  I  wished  him  to  move  "  hany  har- 
ticles  of  furniture,"  afterward  hunting  up  the 
gardener,  who  in  turn  conducted  me  through  the 
sacred  precincts  of  his  own  particular  domain. 

At  another  time,  also  in  connection  with  Mrs. 
Ward's  novels,  I  came  dangerously  near  to  an- 
other break.  It  was  down  in  Surrey,  whither  we 
had  gone  to  visit  the  scenery  of  "  Robert  Els- 

36 


RAMBLES  IN  GREAT  BRITAIN 

mere."  I  knocked  at  the  door  of  a  little  stone 
cottage  celebrated  in  the  novel,  and  was  shown 
into  the  presence  of  a  very  old  gentleman,  who 
looked  suspiciously,  first  at  my  card,  and  then  at 
me,  finally  demanding  to  know  what  I  wanted. 
I  explained  that  I  was  an  American  and  had  come 
to  take  a  picture  of  his  house.  He  looked  puzzled, 
and  after  some  further  scrutiny  of  my  face,  my 
clothes,  my  shoes,  and  my  hat,  said  slowly, "  Well, 
you  people  in  America  must  be  crazy  to  come  all 
the  way  over  here  to  photograph  this  house.  I 
have  always  said  it 's  the  ugliest  house  in  Eng- 
land, owned  by  the  ugliest  landlord  that  ever 
lived,  and  occupied  by  the  ugliest  tenant  in  the 
parish."  Fortunately  he  was  not  possessed  of  the 
Oriental  delusion  that  a  photograph  causes  some 
of  the  virtue  of  an  individual  (or  of  a  house) 
to  pass  out  into  the  picture,  and  upon  further 
reflection  concluded  that  if  a  harmless  lunatic 
wanted  to  make  a  picture  of  his  ugly  old  house, 
it  would  n't  matter  much  after  all. 

Not  infrequently  it  happened  that  the  keepers 
in  charge  of  certain  places  of  public  interest, 
while  desiring  to  be  courteous  themselves,  were 
bound  by  strict  instructions  from  their  superiors. 
In  the  year  when  we  were  exploring  the  length 
and  breadth  of  England  and  Scotland  in  search 
of  the  scenes  of  Sir  Walter  Scott's  writings,  we 
came  one  day  to  a  famous  hall,  generously  thrown 

open  to  the  public  by  the  Duke  of ,  who 

37 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

owned  it.  Here  we  found  a  rule  that  the  use  of 
"stands"  or  tripods  would  not  be  permitted  in 
the  building.  Snap-shots  with  hand-cameras  were 
freely  allowed,  but  these  are  always  more  or  less 
dependent  on  chance,  and  for  interior  views,  re- 
quiring a  long  time-exposure,  are  worthless.  The 
duke,  apparently,  did  not  mind  poor  pictures,  but 
was  afraid  of  good  ones.  I  felt  that  I  really  must 
have  views  of  the  famous  rooms  of  that  house, 
and  we  pleaded  earnestly  with  the  keeper.  But 
orders  were  orders  and  he  remained  inflexible, 
but  always  courteous.  He  wanted  to  help,  how- 
ever, and  finally  conducted  me  to  a  cottage  near 
by  where  I  was  presented  to  his  immediate  su- 
perior, a  good-looking  and  good-natured  woman. 
She,  too,  was  willing  and  even  anxious  to  oblige, 
but  the  duke's  orders  were  imperative.  Finally  a 
thought  struck  me.  "  You  say  stands  are  forbid- 
den —  would  it  be  an  infraction  of  the  rules  if  I 
were  to  rest  my  camera  on  a  table  or  chair  ? " 
"  Oh,  no,  indeed  !  "  she  quickly  replied  ;  then, 
calling  to  the  keeper,  said,  "  John,  I  want  you  to 
do  everything  you  can  for  this  gentleman."  John 
seemed  pleased.  He  first  performed  his  duty  to 
the  duke  by  locking  up  the  dangerous  tripod 
where  it  could  do  no  harm.  Then  taking  charge  of 
us,  he  conducted  us  through  the  well-worn  rooms, 
meanwhile  instructing  his  daughter  to  look  after 
other  visitors  and  keep  them  out  of  our  way.  I 
rested  my  camera  on  ancient  chairs  and  tables  so 

38 


RAMBLES  IN  GREAT  BRITAIN 

precious  that  the  visitors  were  not  permitted  to 
touch  them,  John  kindly  removing  the  protecting 
ropes.  We  were  taken  to  parts  of  the  house  and 
garden  not  usually  shown  to  visitors,  so  anxious 
was  our  guide  to  assist  in  our  purpose.  At  last  we 
came  to  a  great  ballroom,  with  richly  carved  wood- 
work, but  absolutely  bare  of  furniture.  Here  the 
forbidden  "  stand  "  was  sorely  needed.  My  com- 
panion promptly  came  to  the  rescue.  "  I  '11  be  the 
tripod,"  said  she.  The  hint  was  a  good  one,  so, 
resting  the  camera  upon  her  shoulder,  I  soon  had 
my  picture  composed  and  in  focus.  Then,  placing 
the  camera  on  a  convenient  window-ledge  just 
above  my  head,  and  making  allowance  for  the 
increased  elevation,  I  gave  the  plate  a  long  ex- 
posure and  the  result  was  as  good  an  "  interior  " 
as  I  ever  made. 

This  is  one  of  the  best  parts  of  the  game  — 
the  overcoming  of  obstacles.  Without  it,  photog- 
raphy would  be  poor  fun,  something  like  the 
game  of  checkers  I  once  played  with  a  village 
rustic.  He  swept  off  all  my  men  in  half  a  dozen 
moves  and  then  went  away  disgusted.  I  was  too 
easy.  A  picture  that  is  not  worth  taking  a  little 
trouble  to  get  is  usually  not  worth  having.  I 
have  even  been  known  to  take  pictures  I  really 
did  not  need,  just  because  some  unexpected  diffi- 
culties arose. 

Another  part  of  the  pursuit,  which  I  have 
always  enjoyed,  is  the  quiet  amusement  one  can 

39 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

often  derive  from  unexpected  situations.  One  day 
in  London,  when  the  streets  were  pretty  well 
crowded  with  Coronation  visitors,  we  decided  to 
take  a  picture  of  the  new  Victoria  Monument  in 
front  of  Buckingham  Palace.  I  had  taken  the  pre- 
caution to  secure  a  permit,  so,  without  asking  any 
questions,  proceeded  to  spread  out  my  tripod  and 
compose  my  picture.  Just  as  I  inserted  the  plate- 
holder,  a  "  Bobby,"  by  which  name  the  London 
policeman  is  generally  known,  appeared,  advanc- 
ing with  an  air  that  plainly  said,  "  I  '11  soon  stop 
that  game,  my  fine  fellow  !"  I  expressed  my  sur- 
prise and  said  I  had  a  permit,  at  the  same  time 
drawing  the  slide  —  an  action  which,  not  being 
a  photographer,  he  did  not  consider  significant. 
He  looked  scornfully  at  the  permit,  and  said  it 
was  not  good  after  10  A.M.  Here,  again,  the  as- 
sistant photographer  of  our  expedition  came  to 
the  rescue.  She  exercised  the  woman's  privilege 
of  asking  "Why?"  and  "Bobby"  moved  from  in 
front  of  the  camera  to  explain.  " Click"  went  the 
shutter,  in  went  the  slide,  out  came  the  plate-holder, 
and  into  the  case  went  the  camera.  "Bobby" 
politely  apologized  for  interfering,  and  expressed 
his  deep  regret  at  being  obliged  to  disappoint 
us.  I  solemnly  assured  him  that  it  was  all  right, 
that  he  had  only  done  his  duty  and  that  I  did  not 
blame  him  in  the  least !  But  I  neglected  to  inform 
him  that  the  Victoria  Monument  was  already  mine. 
One  of  the  pleasures  of  rambling  with  a  camera 
40 


RAMBLES  IN  GREAT  BRITAIN 

is  that  it  takes  you  to  so  many  out-of-the-way 
places,  which  you  would  not  otherwise  be  likely 
to  visit.  Dorothy  Wordsworth  in  her  "  Recollec- 
tions of  a  Tour  in  Scotland"  complains  that  all 
the  roads  and  taverns  in  Scotland  are  bad.  Dor- 
othy ought  to  have  known,  for  she  and  William 
walked  most  of  the  way  to  save  their  bones  from 
dislocation  by  the  jolting  of  their  little  cart,  and 
their  limited  resources  compelled  them  to  seek 
the  shelter  and  food  of  the  poorest  inns.  The 
modern  tourist,  on  the  contrary,  will  find  excel- 
lent roads  and  for  the  most  part  hotel  accommo- 
dations where  he  can  be  fairly  comfortable.  It 
was  something  of  a  rarity,  therefore,  when,  as 
occasionally  happened,  we  could  find  nothing  but 
an  inn  of  the  kind  that  flourished  a  century  ago. 
On  a  very  rainy  morning  in  May  we  alighted 
from  the  train  at  the  little  village  of  Ecclef echan, 
known  to  the  world  only  as  the  birthplace  of 
Thomas  Carlyle.  A  farmer  at  the  station,  of  whom 
we  inquired  the  location  of  a  good  hotel,  answered 
in  a  Scotch  dialect  so  broad  that  we  could  not 
compass  it.  By  chance  a  carriage  stood  near  by, 
and  as  it  afforded  the  only  escape  from  the  pour- 
ing rain,  we  stepped  in  and  trusted  to  luck.  The 
vehicle  presently  drew  up  before  the  door  of  a 
very  ancient  hotel,  from  which  the  landlady, 
whom  we  have  ever  since  called  "Mrs.  Eccle- 
f echan,"  came  out  to  meet  us.  She  was  a  frail 
little  woman,  well  along  in  years,  with  thin  f ea- 

41 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

tures,  sharp  eyes,  and  a  bald  head,  the  last  of 
which  she  endeavored  to  conceal  beneath  a  sort 
of  peaked  black  bonnet,  tied  with  strings  be- 
neath her  chin,  and  suggesting  the  rather  curious 
spectacle  of  a  bishop's  miter  above  a  female  face. 
Her  dress  was  looped  up  by  pinning  the  bottom 
of  it  around  her  waist,  exposing  a  gray-and- white 
striped  petticoat  that  came  down  halfway  between 
the  knees  and  the  ankles,  beneath  which  were  a 
pair  of  coarse  woolen  stockings  and  some  heavy 
shoes.  A  burlap  apron  completed  the  costume. 

Our  hostess,  who  seemed  to  be  proprietor, 
clerk,  porter,  cook,  chambermaid,  waitress,  bar- 
maid, and  bootblack  of  the  establishment,  was 
possessed  of  a  kind  heart,  and  she  made  us  as 
comfortable  as  her  limited  facilities  would  permit. 
We  were  taken  into  the  public-room,  a  space 
about  twelve  feet  square,  with  a  small  open  fire 
at  one  end,  benches  around  the  walls  and  a 
table  occupying  nearly  all  the  remaining  space. 
Across  a  narrow  passage  was  the  kitchen,  where 
the  landlady  baked  her  oatmeal  cake  and 
served  the  regulars  who  came  for  a  "  penny  'orth 
o'  rum  "  and  a  bit  of  gossip.  In  front  was  an- 
other tiny  room  where  were  served  fastidious 
guests  who  did  not  care  to  eat  in  the  kitchen. 
At  noon  we  sat  down  to  a  luncheon,  which  might 
have  been  worse,  and  at  five  were  summoned  into 
the  little  room  again.  We  thought  it  curious 
to  serve  hard  boiled  eggs  with  afternoon  tea,  and 

42 


RAMBLES  IN  GREAT  BRITAIN 

thinking  supper  would  soon  be  ready,  declined 
them.  This  proved  a  sad  mistake  for  Americans 
with  big,  healthy  appetites,  for  the  supper  never 
came.  The  eggs  were  it. 

We  spent  the  evening  in  the  public-room  sit- 
ting near  the  fire.  One  by  one  the  villagers 
dropped  in,  each  man  ordering  his  toddy  and 
spending  an  hour  or  two  over  a  very  small  glass. 
The  evenings  had  been  spent  in  that  way  in  that 
place  for  a  hundred  years.  We  seemed  to  be  in 
the  atmosphere  of  "  long  ago."  A  middle-aged 
Scotchman,  whose  name  was  pronounced,  very 
broadly,  "Fronk,"  seemed  to  feel  the  responsi- 
bility of  entertaining  us.  He  sang,  very  sweetly 
I  thought,  a  song  by  Lady  Nairne,  "  The  Auld 
Hoose,"  and  recited  with  fine  appreciation  the 
lines  of  Burns' s  "  Lament  for  James,  Earl  of 
Glencairn,"  «  To  a  Mouse,"  "  To  a  Louse,"  and 
other  poems.  He  related  how  Burns  once  helped 
a  friend  out  of  a  dilemma.  Three  women  had 
been  buried  side  by  side.  The  son  of  one  of  them 
wished  to  put  an  inscription  on  his  mother's  tomb- 
stone, but  the  sexton  could  not  remember  which 
grave  was  hers.  Burns  solved  the  problem  by 
suggesting  these  lines :  — 

"  Here,  or  there,  or  thereaboots, 

Lies  the  body  of  Janet  Coutts, 
But  here,  or  there,  or  whereaboots, 

Nane  can  tell 

Till  Janet  rises  and  tells  hersel." 
43 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

Our  landlady  assured  us  that  Fronk  "had  the 
bluid  o'  Douglas  in  his  veins,"  but  he  was  now 
only  a  poor  "  ne'er-do-weel/'  picking  up  "  a  bit 
shillin' "  now  and  then.  But  he  loved  Bobbie 
Burns. 

After  the  evening's  entertainment  we  were 
shown  to  a  tiny  bedroom.  Over  the  horrors  up- 
stairs I  must  draw  the  veil  of  charity,  only  re- 
marking that  if  I  ever  go  to  Ecclefechan  again  I 
shall  seek  out  a  nice  soft  pile  of  old  scrap-iron 
for  a  couch,  rather  than  risk  another  night  on 
one  of  those  beds. 

Of  course  we  visited  the  birthplace  of  Carlyle, 
which  is  now  one  of  the  "  restored  "  show  places, 
and  an  interesting  one.  We  also  went  to  the 
graveyard  to  see  the  tomb  of  Carlyle.  Here  we 
were  conducted  by  an  old  woman,  nearly  ninety 
years  of  age,  very  poor  and  feeble,  who  had  lived 
in  the  village  all  her  days.  We  asked  if  she  had 
ever  seen  Carlyle.  "  Oh,  yes,"  she  replied,  wearily, 
"I  hae  seen  'im.  He  was  a  coo-rious  mon." 
Then  brightening  she  added,  with  a  smile  that 
revealed  her  heart  of  hearts,  "But  we  a'  love 
Bobbie  Burns."  And  so  we  found  it  throughout 
Scotland.  The  feeble  old  woman  and  the  dissi- 
pated wanderer  shared  with  the  intelligent  and 
cultivated  classes  a  deep-seated  and  genuine  love 
for  their  own  peasant  poet,  whom  they  invariably 
called,  affectionately,  "  Bobbie." 

It  was  not  long  after  this  that  we  had  occasion 
44 


THE    BURNS    MONUMENT,    AYRSHIRE 


RAMBLES  IN  GREAT  BRITAIN 

to  visit  the  land  of  Burns,  for  a  trip  through 
Scotland,  even  when  undertaken  primarily  for 
the  sake  of  Scott  landmarks,  as  ours  was,  would 
scarcely  be  possible  without  many  glimpses  of  the 
places  made  famous  by  the  elder  and  less  cultured 
but  not  less  beloved  poet.  Scott's  intimacy  with 
Adam  Ferguson,  the  son  of  the  distinguished  Dr. 
Adam  Ferguson,  was  the  means  of  his  introduction 
to  the  best  literary  society  in  Edinburgh,  and  it 
was  at  the  house  of  the  latter,  that  Scott,  then  a 
boy  of  fifteen,  met  Burns  for  the  first  and  only 
time.  He  attracted  the  notice  of  the  elder  poet 
by  promptly  naming  the  author  of  a  poem  which 
Burns  had  quoted,  when  no  one  else  in  the  room 
could  give  the  information.  It  is  a  far  cry  from 
the  aristocratic  quarters  of  Dr.  Ferguson  to  the 
tavern  in  the  Canongate  where  the  "  Crochallan 
Fencibles"  used  to  meet,  but  here  the  lines 
crossed  again,  for  to  this  resort  for  convivial 
souls  Burns  came  to  enjoy  the  bacchanalian  rev- 
els known  as  "  High  Jinks,"  in  the  same  way 
as  did  Andrew  Crosbie,  the  original  of  Scott's 
fictitious  Paulus  Pleydell. 

We  went  to  the  old  town  of  Dumfries  to  see  a 
number  of  places  described  by  Scott  in  "Guy 
Mannering,"  "  Redgauntlet,"  and  other  novels, 
and  found  ourselves  in  the  very  heart  of  the 
Burns  country.  In  the  center  of  High  Street 
stands  the  old  Midsteeple  in  one  room  of  which 
the  original  Effie  Deans,  whose  real  name  was 

45 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

Isabel  Walker,  was  tried  for  child  murder.  Here 
the  real  Jeanie  Deans  refused  to  tell  a  lie  to  save 
her  sister's  life,  afterward  walking  to  London  to 
secure  her  pardon.  Almost  around  the  corner  is 
the  house  where  Burns's  Jean  lived,  and  where 
" Bobbie"  died.  In  the  same  town  is  the  church- 
yard of  St.  Michaels  where  Burns  lies  buried  in 
a  handsome  "  muselum,"  as  one  of  the  natives 
informed  us. 

Out  on  the  road  toward  the  old  church  of 
Kirkpatrick  Irongray,  where  Scott  erected  a  mon- 
ument to  Helen  Walker,  the  prototype  of  Jeanie 
Deans,  is  a  small  remnant  of  the  house  once  oc- 
cupied by  that  heroine.  In  the  same  general 
direction  but  a  little  farther  to  the  north,  on  the 
banks  of  the  river  Nith,  is  Ellisland,  where  Burns 
attempted  to  manage  a  farm,  attend  to  the  duties 
of  an  excise  officer,  and  write  poetry,  all  at 
the  same  time.  Out  of  the  last  came  "Tarn 
o'  Shanter,"  but  the  other  two  "  attempts  "  were 
failures. 

We  traveled  down  to  Ayrshire  to  see  the  coast 
of  Carrick  and  what  is  left  of  the  ancestral  home 
of  Robert  Bruce,  where  the  Scottish  hero  landed, 
with  the  guidance  of  supernatural  fires,  as  graph- 
ically related  by  Scott  in  "  The  Lord  of  the  Isles." 
Here  again  we  were  in  Burns's  own  country.  In 
the  city  of  Ayr  we  saw  the  "  Twa  Brigs  "  and 
the  very  tavern  which  Tarn  o'  Shanter  may  be 
supposed  to  have  frequented,  — 

46 


RAMBLES  IN  GREAT  BRITAIN 

"  And  at  his  elbow,  Souter  Johnie, 
His  ancient,  trusty,  drouthy  cronie." 

Of  course  we  drove  to  B urns' s  birthplace,  about 
three  miles  to  the  south,  a  long,  narrow  cottage 
with  a  thatched  roof,  one  end  of  which  was 
dwelling-house  and  the  other  end  stable.  It  was 
built  by  the  poet's  father,  with  his  own  hands, 
and  when  Robert  was  born  there  in  the  winter 
of  1759  probably  looked  a  great  deal  less  re- 
spectable than  it  does  now. 

Continuing  southward,  we  stopped  at  Alloway 
Kirk  for  a  view  of  the  old  church  where  Tarn 
o'  Shanter  first  saw  the  midnight  dancing  of  the 
witches  and  started  on  his  famous  ride.  The 
keeper  felt  personally  aggrieved  because  I  pre- 
ferred to  utilize  my  limited  time  to  make  a  picture 
of  the  church,  rather  than  listen  to  his  repetition 
of  a  tale  which  I  already  knew  by  heart.  We 
traveled  over  Tarn's  route  and  soon  had  a  fine 
view  of  the  old  "Brig  o'  Boon,"  where  Tarn  at 
length  escaped  the  witches  at  the  expense  of  his 
poor  nag's  tail.  I  have  made  few  pictures  that 
pleased  me  more  than  that  of  the  "  auld  brig," 
which  I  was  able  to  get  by  placing  my  camera  on 
the  new  bridge  near  by.  Here  the  memory  of 
Burns  is  again  accentuated  by  a  graceful  memo- 
rial, in  the  form  of  a  Grecian  temple  and  very 
similar  to  the  one  on  Calton  Hill,  Edinburgh, 
but  far  more  beautifully  situated.  It  is  surrounded 
by  a  garden  of  well-trimmed  yews,  shrubbery  of 

47 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

various  kinds,  and  a  wealth  of  brightly  blooming 
flowers,  and  best  of  all,  stands  well  above  the 
"banks  and  braes  o'  bonnie  Doon,"  where  the 
poet  himself  would  have  been  happy  to  stand  and 
look  upon  his  beloved  river. 

Whatever  may  have  been  "Bobbie's"  faults, 
and,  poor  fellow,  they  were  many  and  grievous, 
there  is  nothing  more  beautiful  than  the  mantle 
of  love  beneath  which  they  have  been  concealed 
and  forgotten.  He  touched  the  hearts  of  his 
countrymen  as  none  other  ever  did,  and  out  of 
the  sordid  earth  of  his  shortcomings  have  sprung 
beautiful  flowers,  laid  out  along  well-ordered  and 
graceful  paths,  a  delight  and  solace  to  his  fellow- 
men,  like  the  brilliant  blossoms  that  brighten  the 
lovely  garden  at  the  base  of  his  memorial  over- 
looking the  Doon. 


Ill 

A  DAY  IN  WORDSWORTH'S  COUNTRY 


m 

A  DAY  IN  WORDSWORTH'S  COUNTRY 

OUR  arrival  on  Saturday  evening  at  the  vil- 
lage of  Windermere  was  like  the  sudden 
and  unexpected  realization  of  a  dream.  On  many 
a  winter  night,  under  the  light  of  our  library 
lamp  at  home,  we  had  talked  of  that  vague,  distant 
"  sometime "  when  we  should  visit  the  English 
Lakes.  And  now  —  by  what  curious  combination 
of  circumstances  we  did  not  try  to  analyze — 
here  we  were  with  the  whole  beautiful  panorama, 
in  all  its  evening  splendors,  spread  out  before 
us.  Through  our  minds  passed,  as  in  a  vision,  the 
whole  company  of  poets  who  are  inseparably  as- 
sociated with  these  scenes :  Wordsworth,  whose 
abiding  influence  upon  the  spirit  of  poetry  will 
endure  as  long  as  the  mountains  and  vales  which 
taught  him  to  love  and  reverence  nature ;  Southey, 
who,  himself  without  the  appreciation  of  na- 
ture, was  the  first  to  recognize  Wordsworth's 
rare  power  of  interpreting  her  true  meaning; 
Coleridge,  the  most  intimate  friend  of  the 
greater  poet,  whom  Wordsworth  declared  to  be 
the  most  wonderful  man  he  ever  met,  and  who, 
in  spite  of  those  short-comings  which  caused 
his  life  to  end  in  worldly  failure,  nevertheless 

51 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

possessed  a  native  eloquence  and  alluring  per- 
sonality. 

Nor  should  we  forget  De  Quincey,  who  spent 
twenty  of  the  happiest  years  of  his  life  at  Dove 
Cottage,  as  the  successor  of  the  Wordsworths. 
His  most  intimate  companion  was  the  famous 
Professor  Wilson  of  Edinburgh,  known  to  all 
readers  of  "  Blackwood's  Magazine  "  as  "  Chris- 
topher North."  Attracted  partly  by  the  beauty  of 
the  Lake  Country,  but  more  by  his  desire  to  cul- 
tivate the  intimacy  of  Wordsworth,  whose  genius 
he  greatly  admired,  Professor  Wilson  bought  a 
pretty  place  in  Cumberland,  where  he  lived  for 
several  years.  He  enjoyed  the  companionship  of 
the  friendly  group  of  poets,  but,  we  are  told,  oc- 
casionally sought  a  different  kind  of  pleasure  in 
measuring  his  strength  with  some  of  the  native 
wrestlers,  one  of  the  most  famous  of  whom  has 
testified  that  he  found  him  "a  very  bad  un  to 
lick." 

At  a  later  time,  Dr.  Arnold  of  Rugby  found 
himself  drawn  to  the  Lakes  by  the  same  double 
attraction,  and  built  the  charming  cottage  at  Fox 
How  on  the  River  Rothay,  where  his  youngest 
daughter  still  resides.  He  wrote  in  1832 :  "  Our 
intercourse  with  the  Wordsworths  was  one  of  the 
brightest  spots  of  all ;  nothing  could  exceed  their 
friendliness,  and  my  almost  daily  walks  with  him 
were  things  not  to  be  forgotten." 

It  was  not  alone  the  beauty  of  the  Westmore- 
52 


WORDSWORTH'S  COUNTRY 

land  scenery  that  had  attracted  this  group  of 
famous  men.  There  are  lovelier  lakes  in  Scotland 
and  more  majestic  mountains  in  Switzerland. 
But  Wordsworth  was  here,  in  the  midst  of  those 
charming  displays  of  Nature  in  her  most  cheer- 
ful as  well  as  most  soothing  moods.  Nature's 
best  interpreter  and  Nature  herself  could  be  seen 
together.  For  a  hundred  years  this  same  influ- 
ence has  continued  to  exercise  its  spell  upon  trav- 
elers, and  we  are  bound  to  recognize  the  fact  that 
this,  and  nothing  else,  had  drawn  us  away  from  our 
prearranged  path,  that  we  might  enjoy  the  plea- 
sure of  a  Sunday  in  the  country  of  Wordsworth. 
The  morning  dawned,  bright  and  beautiful, 
suggesting  that  splendid  day  when  Wordsworth, 
then  a  youth  of  eighteen,  found  himself  possessed 
of  an  irresistible  desire  to  devote  his  life  to  poetry : 

"  Magnificent 

The  morning  rose,  in  memorable  pomp, 
Glorious  as  e'er  I  had  beheld  —  in  front, 
The  sea  lay  laughing  at  a  distance ;  near, 
The  solid  mountains  shone,  bright  as  the  clouds, 
Grain-tinctured,  drenched  in  empyrean  light ; 
And  in  the  meadows  and  the  lower  grounds 
Was  all  the  sweetness  of  a  common  dawn  — 
Dews,  vapors,  and  the  melody  of  birds, 
And  laborers  going  forth  to  till  the  fields. 
Ah !  need  I  say,  dear  Friend,  that  to  the  brim 
My  heart  was  full ;  I  made  no  vows,  but  vows 
Were  then  made  for  me ;  bond  unknown  to  me 
Was  given,  that  I  should  be,  else  sinning  greatly, 
A  dedicated  spirit." 

63 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

We  resolved  that  the  whole  of  this  beautiful 
day  should  be  devoted  to  catching  something  of 
that  indefinable  spirit  of  the  Westmoreland  hills 
which  had  made  a  poet  of  Wordsworth,  and 
through  him  taught  the  love  of  Nature  to  count- 
less thousands.  A  few  steps  took  us  away  from 
the  town,  the  inn,  and  the  other  tourists,  into  a 
quiet  woodland  path  leading  toward  the  lake,  at 
the  end  of  which  we  stood 

"  On  long  Winander's  eastern  shore." 

"Winander"  is  the  old  form  of  Windermere. 
The  lake  was  the  scene  of  many  of  Wordsworth's 
boyhood  experiences. 

"  When  summer  came, 
Our  pastime  was,  on  bright  half-holidays, 
To  sweep  along  the  plain  of  Windermere 
With  rival  oars ;  and  the  selected  bourne 
Was  now  an  Island  musical  with  birds 
That  sang  and  ceased  not ;  now  a  Sister  Isle 
Beneath  the  oaks'  umbrageous  covert,  sown 
With  lilies  of  the  valley  like  a  field ; 
And  now  a  third  small  Island,  where  survived 
In  solitude  the  ruins  of  a  shrine 
Once  to  Our  Lady  dedicate,  and  served 
Daily  with  chaunted  rites.  In  such  a  race, 
So  ended,  disappointment  could  be  none, 
Uneasiness,  or  pain,  or  jealousy : 
We  rested  in  the  shade,  all  pleased  alike, 
Conquered  and  conqueror.  Thus  the  pride  of  strength, 
And  the  vaiaglory  of  superior  skill, 
Were  tempered." 

54 


WORDSWORTH'S  COUNTRY 

Wordsworth's  boyhood  was  probably  very 
much  like  that  of  other  boys.  He  tells  us  that  he 
was  "  stiff,  moody,  and  of  a  violent  temper  "  — 
so  much  so  that  he  went  up  into  his  grandfather's 
attic  one  day,  while  under  the  resentment  of 
some  indignity,  determined  to  destroy  himself. 
But  his  heart  failed.  On  another  occasion  he  re- 
lates that  while  at  his  grandfather's  house  in 
Penrith,  he  and  his  eldest  brother  Richard  were 
whipping  tops  in  the  large  drawing-room.  "  The 
walls  were  hung  round  with  family  pictures,  and 
I  said  to  my  brother,  ( Dare  you  strike  your  whip 
through  that  old  lady's  petticoat?'  He  replied, 
<No,  I  won't.'  <  Then,'  said  I,  ' here  goes  ! '  and 
I  struck  my  lash  through  her  hooped  petticoat ; 
for  which,  no  doubt,  though  I  have  forgotten  it, 
I  was  properly  punished.  But,  possibly  from  some 
want  of  judgment  in  the  punishments  inflicted, 
I  had  become  perverse  and  obstinate  in  defying 
chastisement,  and  rather  proud  of  it  than  other- 
wise." Lowell  remarks  upon  this  incident :  "Just 
so  do  we  find  him  afterward  striking  his  defiant 
lash  through  the  hooped  petticoat  of  the  arti- 
ficial style  of  poetry,  and  proudly  unsubdued  by 
the  punishment  of  the  Reviewers."  When  scarcely 
ten  years  old,  it  was  his  joy 

"  To  range  the  open  heights  where  woodcocks  run." 

He  would  spend  half  the  night  "  scudding  away 
from  snare  to  snare,"  sometimes  yielding  to  the 

55 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

temptation  to  take  the  birds  caught  in  the  snare  of 
some  other  lad.  He  felt  the  average  boy's  terror 
inspired  by  a  guilty  conscience,  for  he  says :  — 

"  And  when  the  deed  was  done, 
I  heard  among  the  solitary  hills 
Low  breathings  coming  after  me,  and  sounds 
Of  undistinguishable  motion,  steps 
Almost  as  silent  as  the  turf  they  trod." 

Across  the  lake  from  where  we  stood,  and  over 
beyond  the  hills  on  the  other  side,  is  the  quaint 
old  town  of  Hawkshead,  where  Wordsworth  was 
sent  to  school  at  the  age  of  nine  years.  The  little 
school-house  may  still  be  seen,  but  it  is  of  small 
import.  The  real  scenes  of  Wordsworth's  early 
education  were  the  woods  and  vales,  the  soli- 
tary cliffs,  the  rocks  and  pools,  and  the  Lake  of 
Esthwaite,  five  miles  round,  which  he  was  fond 
of  encircling  in  his  early  morning  walks,  that  he 
might  sit 

"Alone  upon  some  jutting  eminence, 
At  the  first  gleam  of  dawn-light,  when  the  Vale, 
Yet  slumbering,  lay  in  utter  solitude." 

In  winter-time  "  a  noisy  crew  "  made  merry  upon 
the  icy  surface  of  the  lake. 

"All  shod  with  steel, 

We  hissed  along  the  polished  ice  in  games 
Confederate,  imitative  of  the  chase 
And  woodland  pleasures,  —  the  resounding  horn, 
The  pack  loud  chiming,  and  the  hunted  hare. 
So  through  the  darkness  and  the  cold  we  flew, 
And  not  a  voice  was  idle." 
56 


WORDSWORTH'S  COUNTRY 

Nor  were  the  pleasures  of  social  life  lacking. 
Dances,  feasts,  public  revelry,  and 

"  A  swarm 
Of  heady  schemes,  jostling  each  other," 

all  seemed  for  a  time  to  conspire  to  lure  his  mind 
away  from  the  paths  of  "books  and  nature," 
which  he  would  have  preferred.  But,  curiously 
enough,  it  was  after  one  of  these  nights  of  rev- 
elry that,  on  his  way  home,  Wordsworth  was  so 
much  impressed  with  the  beauties  of  the  dawn 
that  he  felt  the  impulse,  previously  mentioned, 
to  devote  himself  to  poetry. 

No  other  poet  ever  gave  such  an  account  of  the 
development  of  his  own  mind  as  Wordsworth 
gives  in  the  "  Prelude."  And  while  he  recounts 
enough  incidents  like  the  snaring  of  woodcock, 
the  fishing  for  trout  in  the  quiet  pools  and  the 
cascades  of  the  mountain  brooks,  the  flying  of 
kites  on  the  hilltops,  the  nutting  expeditions,  the 
rowing  on  the  lake,  and  in  the  winter-time  the 
skating  and  dancing,  to  convince  us  that  he  was 
really  a  boy,  yet  he  continually  shows  that  be- 
neath it  all  there  was  a  deeper  feeling —  a  proph- 
ecy of  the  man  who  was  even  then  developing. 
No  ordinary  boy  would  have  been  conscious  of 
"  a  sense  of  pain "  at  beholding  the  mutilated 
hazel  boughs  which  he  had  broken  in  his  search 
for  nuts.  No  ordinary  lad  of  ten  would  be 
able  to  hold 

57 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

"Unconscious  intercourse  with  beauty 
Old  as  creation,  drinking  in  a  pure 
Organic  pleasure  from  the  silver  wreaths 
Of  curling  mist,  or  from  the  level  plain 
Of  waters  colored  by  impending  clouds." 

Even  at  that  early  age,  in  the  midst  of  all  his 
pleasures  he  felt 

"  Gleams  like  the  flashing  of  a  shield ;  —  the  earth 
And  common  face  of  Nature  spake  to  me 
Rememberable  things." 

The  secret  of  Wordsworth's  power  lay  in  the 
fact  that,  throughout  a  long  life,  nature  was  to 
him  a  vital,  living  Presence  —  one  capable  of  up- 
lifting mankind  to  loftier  aspirations,  of  teaching 
noble  truths,  and  at  the  same  time  providing 
tranquillity  and  rest  to  the  soul.  As  a  boy  he  had 
felt  for  nature 

"  A  feeling  and  a  love 
That  had  no  need  of  a  remoter  charm." 

But  manhood  brought  a  deeper  joy. 

"  For  I  have  learned 
To  look  on  nature,  not  as  in  the  hour 
Of  thoughtless  youth;  but  hearing  oftentimes 
The  still,  sad  music  of  humanity, 
Nor  harsh  nor  grating,  though  of  ample  power 
To  chasten  and  subdue.  And  I  have  felt 
A  presence  that  disturbs  me  with  the  joy 
Of  elevated  thoughts ;  a  sense  sublime  of 
Something  far  more  deeply  interfused, 
Whose  dwelling  is  the  light  of  setting  suns, 
And  the  round  ocean,  and  the  living  air, 
And  the  blue  sky,  and  in  the  mind  of  man ; 
58 


WORDSWORTH'S  COUNTRY 

A  motion  and  a  spirit,  that  impels 
All  thinking  things,  all  objects  of  all  thought, 
And  rolls  through  all  things.  Therefore  am  I  still 
A  lover  of  the  meadows  and  the  woods 
And  mountains,  and  of  all  that  we  behold 
From  this  green  earth ;  of  all  the  mighty  world 
Of  eye  and  ear  —  both  what  they  half  create, 
And  what  perceive ;  well  pleased  to  recognize 
In  nature  and  the  language  of  the  sense, 
The  anchor  of  my  purest  thoughts,  the  nurse, 
The  guide,  the  guardian  of  my  heart,  and  soul 
Of  all  my  moral  being." 

In  these  noble  lines  we  reach  the  very  summit 
of  Wordsworth's  intellectual  power  and  poetic 
genius. 

We  must  now  retrace  our  steps  to  the  village 
and  find  a  carriage  to  take  us  on  our  journey. 
For  we  are  not  like  our  English  friends,  who  are 
good  walkers,  nor  do  we  care  to  emulate  the  pe- 
destrian attainments  of  our  poet,  who,  DeQuincey 
thought,  must  have  traversed  a  distance  of  one 
hundred  and  seventy-five  thousand  to  one  hun- 
dred and  eighty  thousand  English  miles.  So  a 
comfortable  landau  takes  us  on  our  way,  skirt- 
ing the  upper  margin  of  the  lake,  then  winding 
along  the  river  Brathay,  pausing  for  a  moment 
to  view  the  charming  little  cascade  of  Skelwith 
Force,  then  on  again  until  Red  Bank  is  reached, 
overlooking  the  vale  of  Grasmere.  The  first 
glimpse  of  this  placid  little  lake,  "  with  its  one 
green  island,"  its  shores  well  fringed  with  the 
budding  foliage  of  spring,  the  gently  undulating 

59 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

hills  forming  as  it  were  a  graceful  frame  to  the 
mirror  of  the  waters,  in  which  the  reflection  of 
the  blue  sky  and  fleecy  white  clouds  seemed  even 
more  beautiful  than  their  original  overhead  — 
the  first  glimpse  could  scarcely  fail  to  arouse  the 
emotions  of  the  most  apathetic  and  stir  up  a 
poetic  feeling  in  the  most  unpoetic  of  natures. 

To  a  mind  like  Wordsworth's,  such  a  scene 
was  an  inspiration,  a  revelation  of  Nature's  charms 
such  as  could  arouse  an  almost  ecstatic  enthu- 
siasm in  the  heart  of  one  who,  all  his  life,  had 
lived  amid  scenes  of  beauty  and  possessed  the  eyes 
to  see  them.  He  came  here  first "  a  roving  school- 
boy," on  a  "  golden  summer  holiday,"  and  even 
then  said,  with  a  sigh,  — 

"  What  happy  fortune  were  it  here  to  live  !  " 

He  had  no  thought,  nor  even  hope,  that  he  would 
ever  realize  such  good  fortune,  but  only 

"  A  fancy  in  the  heart  of  what  might  be 
The  lot  of  others  never  could  be  his." 

Possibly  he  may  have  stood  on  this  very  knoll 
where  we  were  enjoying  our  first  view :  — 

"  The  station  whence  we  looked  was  soft  and  green, 
Not  giddy,  yet  aerial,  with  a  depth 
Of  vale  below,  a  height  of  hills  above. 
For  rest  of  body  perfect  was  the  spot, 
All  that  luxurious  nature  could  desire ; 
But  stirring  to  the  spirit;  who  could  gaze 
And  not  feel  motions  there  ?  " 
60 


WORDSWORTH'S  COUNTRY 

Many  years  later,  in  the  summer  of  1799, 
Wordsworth  and  Coleridge  were  walking  together 
over  the  hills  and  valleys  of  Westmoreland  and 
Cumberland,  hoping  to  find,  each  for  himself,  a 
home  where  they  might  dwell  as  neighbors.  Since 
receiving  his  degree  at  Cambridge  in  1791  Words- 
worth had  wandered  about  in  a  somewhat  aimless 
way,  living  for  a  time  in  London  and  in  Prance, 
visiting  Germany,  and  finally  attempting  to  find 
a  home  in  the  south  of  England.  A  small  legacy 
left  him  in  1795  had  given  a  feeling  of  independ- 
ence, and  his  one  consuming  desire  at  this  time 
was  to  establish  a  home  where  his  beloved  sister 
Dorothy  might  be  with  him  and  he  could  devote 
his  entire  time  to  poetry. 

A  little  cottage  in  a  quiet  spot  just  outside 
the  village  of  Grasmere  attracted  his  eye.  It  had 
been  a  public-house,  and  bore  the  sign  "The 
Dove  and  the  Olive  Bough."  He  called  it  "Dove 
Cottage,"  and  for  eight  years  it  became  his  home. 
We  found  the  custodian,  a  little  old  lady,  in  a 
penny  shop  across  the  street,  and  she  was  glad  to 
show  us  through  the  tiny,  low-ceilinged  rooms. 
The  cottage  looks  best  from  the  little  garden  in 
the  rear.  The  ivy  and  the  roses  soften  all  the 
harsh  angles  of  the  eaves  and  convert  even  the 
chimney-pots  into  things  of  beauty.  A  tangled 
mass  of  foliage  covers  the  small  back  portico  and 
makes  a  shady  nook,  where  a  little  bench  is  in- 
vitingly placed.  A  few  yards  up  the  garden  walk, 

61 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

over  stone  steps  put  in  place  by  Wordsworth  and 
Hartley  Coleridge,  is  the  rocky  well,  or  spring, 
where  the  poet  placed  "  bright  gowan  and  marsh 
marigold  "  brought  from  the  borders  of  the  lake. 
At  the  farthest  end  is  the  little  summer-house,  the 
poet's  favorite  retreat.  How  well  he  loved  this 
garden  is  shown  in  the  poem  written  when  he 
left  Grasmere  to  bring  home  his  bride  in  1802 :  — 

"  Sweet  garden  orchard,  eminently  fair, 
The  loveliest  spot  that  man  hath  ever  found." 

Seating  ourselves  in  this  garden,  we  tried  to 
think  of  the  three  interesting  personages  who  had 
made  the  place  their  home.  Coleridge  said, "  His 
is  the  happiest  family  I  ever  saw."  They  had  one 
common  object  —  to  work  together  to  develop  a 
rare  poetic  gift.  They  were  poor,  for  Wordsworth 
had  only  the  income  of  a  very  small  legacy,  and 
the  public  had  not  yet  come  to  recognize  his 
genius;  the  returns  from  his  literary  work  were 
therefore  extremely  meager.  They  got  along  with 
frugal  living  and  poor  clothing,  but  as  they  made 
no  pretensions  they  were  never  ashamed  of  their 
poverty.  Visitors  came  and  went,  and  at  the  cost 
of  many  little  sacrifices  were  hospitably  enter- 
tained. 

Perhaps  the  world  will  never  know  how  much 
Wordsworth  really  owed  to  the  two  women  of  his 
household.  They  lived  together  with  no  sign  of 
jealousy  or  distrust.  The  husband  and  brother 

62 


WORDSWORTH'S  COUNTRY 

was  the  object  of  their  untiring  and  sympathetic 
devotion.  They  walked  with  him,  read  with  him, 
cared  for  him.  Mrs.  Wordsworth  seems  to  have 
been  a  plain  country-woman  of  simple  manners, 
yet  possessed  of  a  graciousness  and  tact  which 
made  everything  in  the  household  go  smoothly. 
De  Quincey  declared  that,  "  without  being  hand- 
some or  even  comely,"  she  exercised  "all  the 
practical  fascination  of  beauty,  through  the  mere 
compensating  charms  of  sweetness  all  but  angelic, 
of  simplicity  the  most  entire,  womanly  self-respect 
and  purity  of  heart  speaking  through  all  her 
looks,  acts,  and  movements."  Wordsworth  was 
never  more  sincere  than  when  he  sang,  — 

"  She  was  a  phantom  of  delight," 

and  closed  the  poem  with  that  splendid  tribute 
to  a  most  excellent  wife :  — 

"  A  perfect  woman,  nobly  planned, 
To  warn,  to  comfort,  and  command ; 
And  yet  a  spirit  still,  and  bright 
With  something  of  angelic  light." 

He  recognized  her  unusual  poetic  instinct  by 
giving  her  full  credit  for  the  best  two  lines  in 
one  of  his  most  beautiful  poems,  "The  Daffo- 
dils":— 

"  They  flash  upon  that  inward  eye 
Which  is  the  bliss  of  solitude." 

To  the  other  member  of  that  household,  his 
sister  Dorothy,  Wordsworth  gave  from  early  boy- 

63 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

hood  the  full  measure  of  his  affection.  She  was 
his  constant  companion  in  his  walks,  at  all  hours 
and  in  all  kinds  of  weather.  She  cheerfully  per- 
formed the  irksome  task  of  writing  out  his  verses 
from  dictation.  Her  observations  of  nature  were 
as  keen  as  his,  and  the  poet  was  indebted  to 
Dorothy's  notebook  for  many  a  good  suggestion. 
He  has  been  most  generous  in  his  acknowledg- 
ments of  his  obligation  to  her :  — 

"  She  gave  me  eyes,  she  gave  me  ears, 
And  humble  cares,  and  delicate  fears, 

And  love,  and  thought,  and  joy." 

In  the  early  days  when  he  was  overwhelmed 
with  adverse  criticism  and  brought  almost  to  the 
verge  of  despair,  it  was  Dorothy's  helping  hand 
that  brought  him  back  to  his  own. 

"  She  whispered  still  that  brightness  would  return ; 
She,  in  the  midst  of  all,  preserved  me  still 
A  poet,  made  me  seek  beneath  that  name, 
And  that  alone,  my  office  upon  earth." 

But  it  is  De  Quincey  who  gives  the  best  state- 
ment of  the  world's  obligation  to  Dorothy.  Said 
he:  — 

Whereas  the  intellect  of  Wordsworth  was,  by  its 
original  tendency,  too  stern,  too  austere,  too  much  en- 
amored of  an  ascetic  harsh  sublimity,  she  it  was  —  the 
lady  who  paced  by  his  side  continually  through  sylvan 
and  mountain  tracks,  in  Highland  glens,  and  in  the 

64 


WORDSWORTH'S  COUNTRY 

dim  recesses  of  German  charcoal-burners  —  that  first 
couched  his  eye  to  the  sense  of  beauty,  humanized  him 
by  the  gentler  charities,  and  engrafted,  with  her  deli- 
cate female  touch,  those  graces  upon  the  ruder  growths 
of  nature  which  have  since  clothed  the  forest  of  his 
genius  with  a  foliage  corresponding  in  loveliness  and 
beauty  to  the  strength  of  its  boughs  and  the  massive- 
ness  of  its  trunks. 

Nearly  all  of  Wordsworth's  best  poetry  was 
written  in  this  little  cottage,  or,  to  speak  more 
accurately,  it  was  composed  while  he  was  living 
here.  For  it  was  never  his  way  to  write  verses 
while  seated  at  a  desk,  pen  in  hand.  His  study 
was  out  of  doors.  He  could  compose  a  long  poem 
while  walking,  and  remember  it  all  afterward 
when  ready  to  dictate.  Thousands  of  verses,  he 
said,  were  composed  on  the  banks  of  the  brook 
running  through  Easedale,  just  north  of  Gras- 
rnere  Lake.  The  tall  figure  of  the  poet  was  a 
familiar  sight  to  farmers  for  miles  around,  as  he 
paced  the  woods  or  mountain  paths,  his  head 
bent  down,  and  his  lips  moving  with  audible  if 
not  distinguishable  sounds.  One  of  his  neighbors 
has  left  on  record  an  impression  of  how  he 
seemed  when  he  was  "  making  a  poem." 

He  would  set  his  head  a  bit  forward,  and  put  his 
hands  behind  his  back.  And  then  he  would  start  in 
bumming,  and  it  was  bum,  bum,  bum,  stop ;  and  then 
he'd  set  down,  and  git  a  bit  o'  paper  out,  and  write  a 
bit.  However,  his  lips  were  always  goan'  whoole  time 

65 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

he  was  upon  gress1  walk.  He  was  a  kind  mon,  there's 
no  two  words  about  that ;  and  if  any  one  was  sick  i'  the 
place,  he  wad  be  off  to  see  til'  'em. 

In  personal  appearance  —  about  which,  by  the 
way,  he  cared  little — he  was  not  unlike  the  dales- 
men about  him.  Nearly  six  feet  high,  he  looked 
strong  and  hardy  enough  to  be  a  farmer  himself. 
Carlyle  speaks  of  him  as  "  businesslike,  sedately 
confident,  no  discourtesy,  yet  no  anxiety  about 
being  courteous ;  a  fine  wholesome  rusticity,  fresh 
as  his  mountain  breezes,  sat  well  on  the  stalwart 
veteran  and  on  all  he  said  or  did." 

On  our  return  from  Grasmere  we  took  the  road 
along  the  north  shore  of  Rydal  Water  —  a  small 
lake  with  all  the  characteristic  beauty  of  this 
fascinating  region,  and  yet  not  so  different  from 
hundreds  of  others  that  it  would  ever  attract 
more  than  passing  notice.  But  the  name  of  Rydal 
is  linked  with  that  of  Grasmere,  and  the  two  are 
visited  by  thousands  of  tourists  year  after  year. 
For  fifty  years  the  shores  of  these  two  lakes  and 
the  hills  and  valleys  surrounding  them  were  the 
scenes  of  Wordsworth's  daily  walks.  As  we  passed 
we  heard  the  cuckoo  —  its  mysterious  sound 
seeming  to  come  across  the  lake  —  and  as  our 
own  thoughts  were  on  Wordsworth,  "  the  wan- 
dering Voice  "  seemed  appropriate.  If  we  could 
have  heard  the  skylark  at  that  moment,  our  sense 
of  satisfaction  would  have  been  quite  complete, 

i  Grass. 
66 


WORDSWORTH'S  COUNTRY 

and  no  doubt  we  should  have  cried  out,  with  the 
poet,  — 

"  Up  with  me !  up  with  me  into  the  clouds ! 

For  thy  song,  Lark,  is  strong  ; 
Up  with  me,  up  with  me  into  the  clouds ! 

Singing,  singing, 
With  clouds  and  sky  about  thee  ringing, 

Lift  me,  guide  me  till  I  find 
That  spot  which  seems  so  to  thy  mind." 

Just  north  of  the  eastern  end  of  the  lake,  be- 
neath the  shadow  of  Nab  Scar,  is  Rydal  Mount, 
where  the  poet  came  to  live  in  1813,  remaining 
until  his  death,  thirty-seven  years  later.  Increas- 
ing prosperity  enabled  him  to  take  this  far  more 
pretentious  house.  It  stands  on  a  hill,  a  little  off 
the  main  road,  and  quite  out  of  sight  of  the 
tourists  who  pass  through  in  coaches  and  chars- 
a-bancs.  The  drivers  usually  jerk  their  thumbs 
in  the  general  direction  and  say,  "  There  is 
Rydal  Mount,"  etc.,  and  the  tourists,  who  have 
seen  only  a  farmhouse  —  not  Wordsworth's  — 
are  left  to  imagine  that  they  have  seen  the  house 
of  the  poet. 

It  is  an  old  house,  but  some  recent  changes  in 
doors  and  windows  give  it  a  more  modern  aspect. 
The  unaltered  portion  is  thickly  covered  with 
ivy.  The  ground  in  front  is  well  planted  with  a 
profusion  of  rhododendrons.  A  very  old  stone 
stairway  descends  from  the  plaza  in  front  of  the 
house  to  a  kind  of  mound  or  rather  a  double 

67 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

mound,  the  smaller  resting  upon  a  larger  one. 
From  this  point  the  house  is  seen  to  the  best  ad- 
vantage. In  the  opposite  direction  is  a  landscape 
of  rare  natural  beauty.  Far  away  in  the  distance 
lies  Lake  Windermere  glistening  like  a  shield  of 
polished  silver,  while  on  the  left  Wansfell  and  on 
the  right  Nab  Scar  stand  guard  over  the  valley. 
In  the  foreground  the  spire  of  the  little  church 
of  Rydal  peeps  out  over  the  trees. 

At  the  right  of  the  house  is  a  long  terrace 
which  formed  one  of  Wordsworth's  favorite  walks, 
where  he  composed  thousands  of  verses.  From 
here  one  may  see  both  Windermere  and  Rydal 
Water,  with  mountains  in  the  distance.  Passing 
through  the  garden  we  came  to  a  gate  leading 
to  Dora's  Field.  Here  is  the  little  pool  where 
Wordsworth  and  Dora  put  the  little  goldfishes, 
that  they  might  enjoy  a  greater  liberty.  Here  is 
the  stone  which  Wordsworth  saved  from  destruc- 
tion by  the  builders  of  a  stone  wall.  A  little 
flight  of  stone  steps  leads  down  to  another  boul- 
der containing  the  following  inscription,  carved 
by  the  poet's  own  hand :  — 

Wouldst  thou  be  gathered  to  Christ's  chosen  flock 
Shun  the  broad  way  too  easily  explored 
And  let  thy  path  be  hewn  out  of  the  rock 
The  living  Rock  of  God's  eternal  WORD 

1838 

Dora's  field  is  thickly  covered  in  springtime 
with  the  beautiful  golden  daffodils,  planted  by 

68 


WORDSWORTH'S  COUNTRY 

the  poet  himself.  No  sight  is  more  fascinating  at 
this  season  than  a  field  of  these  bright  yellow 
flowers.  We  Americans,  who  only  see  them 
planted  in  gardens,  cannot  realize  what  daffodils 
mean  to  the  English  eye,  unless  we  chance  to  visit 
England  during  the  early  spring.  What  Words- 
worth called  a  "crowd"  of  daffodils,  growing 
in  thick  profusion  along  the  margin  of  a  lake, 
beneath  the  trees,  ten  thousand  to  be  seen  at  a 
glance,  all  nodding  their  golden  heads  beside  the 
dancing  and  foaming  waves,  is  a  sight  well  worth 
seeing. 

"  The  waves  beside  them  danced ;  but  they 
Outdid  the  sparkling  waves  in  glee ; 
A  poet  could  not  but  be  gay 
In  such  a  jocund  company : 
I  gazed  —  and  gazed  —  but  little  thought 
What  wealth  the  show  to  me  had  brought : 

For  oft,  when  on  my  couch  I  lie 
In  vacant  or  in  pensive  mood, 
They  flash  upon  that  inward  eye 
Which  is  the  bliss  of  solitude : 
And  then  my  heart  with  pleasure  fills, 
And  dances  with  the  daffodils." 

But  now  the  time  had  come  to  return  to  Win- 
dermere,  and  reluctantly  we  turned  our  backs 
upon  these  scenes,  so  full  of  pleasant  memories. 
The  day,  however,  was  not  yet  done,  for  after 
supper  we  climbed  to  the  top  of  Orrest-Head,  a 
little  hill  behind  the  village.  No  more  charming 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

spot  could  have  been  chosen  in  which  to  spend 
the  closing  hours  of  this  peaceful  day.  Far  below 
lay  the  quiet  waters  of  the  lake,  only  glimpses  of 
its  long  and  narrow  surface  appearing  here  and 
there,  like  "burnished  mirrors"  set  by  Nature 
for  the  sole  purpose  of  reflecting  a  magnificent 
golden  sky.  It  was  "  an  evening  of  extraordinary . 
splendor,"  like  that  one  which  Wordsworth  saw 
from  Rydal  Mount :  — 

"  No  sound  is  uttered,  —  but  a  deep 
And  solemn  harmony  pervades 
The  hollow  vale  from  steep  to  steep, 
And  penetrates  the  glades." 

As  we  stood  watching  the  splendid  sunset,  the 
village  church  rang  out  its  chimes,  as  if  to  accom- 
pany the  inspiring  scene  with  sweet  and  holy 
music. 

"  How  pleasant,  when  the  sun  declines,  to  view 
The  spacious  landscape  change  in  form  and  hue ! 
Here  vanish,  as  in  mist,  before  a  flood 
Of  bright  obscurity,  hill,  lawn,  and  wood ; 
Their  objects,  by  the  searching  beams  betrayed, 
Come  forth  and  here  retire  in  purple  shade ; 
Even  the  white  stems  of  birch,  the  cottage  white, 
Soften  their  glare  before  the  mellow  light." 

The  shadows  which  had  been  slowly  falling 
upon  the  scene  had  now  so  far  enveloped  the 
mountain-side  that  the  narrow  roadways  and 
stone  fences  marking  the  boundaries  of  the  fields 
were  barely  visible.  Suddenly  in  the  distance  we 

70 


WORDSWORTH'S  COUNTRY 

saw  a  moving  object,  a  mere  speck  upon  the  hill- 
side. It  darted  first  in  one  direction  and  then 
another,  like  some  frightened  being  uncertain 
which  way  to  turn.  Then  a  darker  speck  ap- 
peared, and  with  rapid  movement  circled  to  the 
rear  of  the  whiter  one,  the  latter  moving  on 
ahead.  Another  sudden  movement,  and  a  second 
white  speck  appeared  in  another  spot.  The  black 
speck  as  quickly  moved  to  the  rear  of  this  second 
bit  of  white,  driving  it  in  the  same  direction  as 
the  first.  The  white  specks  then  began  to  seem 
more  numerous.  We  tried  to  count —  one  —  two 
—three  — ten  —  a  dozen — perhaps  even  twenty. 
There  was  but  one  black  speck,  and  he  seemed  to 
be  the  master  of  all  the  others,  for,  darting  here 
and  there  after  the  stragglers,  he  kept  them  all 
together.  He  drove  them  along  the  narrow  road. 
Then,  coming  to  an  opening  in  the  fence,  he 
hurried  along  to  the  front  of  the  procession; 
then,  facing  about,  deftly  turned  the  whole  flock 
through  the  gate  into  a  large  field.  Through  this 
pasture,  with  the  skill  of  a  military  leader,  he 
marshaled  his  troop,  rushing  backwards  and  for- 
wards, allowing  none  to  fall  behind  nor  to  stray 
away  from  the  proper  path,  finally  bringing  them 
up  in  a  compact  body  to  another  opening  in  the 
opposite  end  of  the  field.  On  he  went,  driving 
his  small  battalion  along  the  road,  then  at  right 
angles  into  another  road,  until  the  whole  flock 
of  sheep  and  the  little  black  dog  who  commanded 

71 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

them  disappeared  for  the  night  among  the  out- 
buildings of  a  far  distant  farm. 

The  twilight  had  almost  gone,  and  in  the 
growing  darkness  we  retraced  our  steps  to  the 
village,  well  content  that,  through  communion 
with  the  Spirit  of  Wordsworth  in  the  presence 
of  that  "  mighty  Being "  who  to  him  was  the 
great  Teacher  and  Inspirer  of  mankind,  our  own 
love  of  nature  had  been  reawakened,  and  our 
time  well  spent  on  this  peaceful,  never-to-be-for- 
gotten day  at  Windermere. 


IV 
FKOM  HAWTHORNDEN  TO  ROSLIN  GLEN 


IV 

FROM  HAWTHOENDEN  TO  EOSLIN  GLEN 

"  Roslin's  towers  and  braes  are  bonnie  — 

Craigs  and  water  !  woods  and  glen  ! 
Roslin's  banks  !  unpeered  by  ony, 
Save  the  Muse's  Hawthornden." 


JL 


vale  of  the  Esk  is  unrivaled,  even  in 
Scotland,  for  beauty  and  romantic  interest. 
From  its  source  to  where  it  enters  the  Firth  of 
Forth,  the  little  river  winds  its  way  past  ancient 
castles  with  their  romantic  legends,  famed  in 
poetry  and  song,  and  the  picturesque  homes  of 
barons  and  lairds,  poets  and  philosophers,  form- 
ing as  it  goes,  with  rocks  and  cliffs,  tall  trees  and 
overhanging  vines,  a  bewildering  succession  of 
beautiful  scenes. 

It  was  to  to  this  charming  valley  that  Walter 
Scott  came,  with  his  young  wife,  in  the  first  year 
of  their  wedded  life.  A  young  man  of  imagina- 
tive and  romantic  temperament,  though  as  yet 
unknown  to  fame,  he  found  the  place  an  inspira- 
tion and  delight.  A  pretty  little  cottage,  with 
thatched  roof,  and  a  garden  commanding  a  beau- 
tiful view,  made  the  home  where  many  happy 
summers  were  spent.  This  was  at  Lasswade,  a 
village  which  took  its  striking  name  from  the 
fact  —  let  us  hope  it  was  a  fact  —  that  here  a 

75 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

sturdy  lass  was  wont  to  wade  the  stream,  carry- 
ing travelers  on  her  back,  —  a  ferry  service  suf- 
ficiently romantic  to  make  up  for  its  uncertainty. 
Lockhart  tells  us  that  "it  was  amidst  these 
delicious  solitudes  "  that  Walter  Scott  "  laid  the 
imperishable  foundation  of  all  his  fame.  It  was 
here  that  when  his  warm  heart  was  beating  with 
young  and  happy  love,  and  his  whole  mind  and 
spirit  were  nerved  by  new  motives  for  exertion 
—  it  was  here  that  in  the  ripened  glow  of  man- 
hood he  seems  to  have  first  felt  something  of  his 
real  strength,  and  poured  himself  out  in  those 
splendid  original  ballads  which  were  at  once  to 
fix  his  name." 

"  Sweet  are  the  paths,  O  passing  sweet  I 

By  Esk's  fair  streams  that  run, 
O'er  airy  steep  through  copsewood  deep, 
Impervious  to  the  sun. 

Who  knows  not  Melville's  beechy  grove 

And  Roslin's  rocky  glen, 
Dalkeith,  which  all  the  virtues  love, 

And  classic  Hawthornden  ?  " 

The  visitor  who  would  see  "Roslin's  rocky 
glen  "  may  take  a  coach  in  Edinburgh  and  soon 
reach  the  spot  after  a  pleasant  drive  over  a  well- 
kept  road.  But  if  he  would  see  "  classic  Haw- 
thornden "  in  the  same  day,  he  must  go  there 
first.  For  the  gate  which  separates  the  two 
opens  out  from  Hawthornden  and  the  traveler 
cannot  pass  in  the  opposite  direction.  We  there- 

76 


HAWTHORNDEN  TO  ROSLIN  GLEN 

fore  took  the  train  from  Edinburgh,  and  after 
half  an  hour  alighted  at  a  little  station,  from 
which  we  walked  a  few  hundred  yards  along  a 
quiet  country  road,  until  we  reached  a  lodge 
marking  the  entrance  to  a  large  estate.  Enter- 
ing here,  a  few  steps  brought  us  to  the  house  of 
the  gardener,  who  first  conducted  us  to  the  place 
that  interests  him  the  most — a  large  and  well- 
kept  garden,  full  of  fruits  and  vegetables,  beau- 
tiful flowers  and  well-trained  vines.  His  pride 
satisfied  by  our  sincere  admiration  of  his  handi- 
work, our  guide  was  ready  to  reveal  to  us  the 
glory  of  Hawthornden,  and  conducted  us  to  the 
edge  of  a  precipice  known  as  John  Knox's  Pul- 
pit. In  front  is  a  deep  ravine  of  stupendous 
rocks  partly  bare  and  partly  covered  with  bushes 
and  pendent  creepers.  The  tall  trees  on  the 
border,  the  wooded  hill  in  the  distance,  and  the 
grand  sweep  of  the  river  far  below,  form  a 
scene  of  majestic  grandeur  as  nearly  perfect  as 
one  could  wish.  To  the  left,  on  the  very  edge  of  a 
perpendicular  rock,  is  a  strong,  well-built  man- 
sion, so  situated  that  the  windows  of  its  prin- 
cipal rooms  command  a  view  of  the  wondrous 
vale.  On  the  other  side  of  the  house  are  the 
ivy-covered  ruins  of  an  older  castle,  dating  back 
many  centuries. 

Since  the  middle  of  the  sixteenth  century, 
Hawthornden  has  been  the  home  of  a  family  of 
Drummonds  —  a  famous  Scottish  name.  William 

77 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

Drummond,  the  most  distinguished  of  them  all, 
whose  name  is  inseparably  associated  with  the 
place,  was  born  in  1585.  His  father  was  a  gen- 
tleman-usher at  the  court  of  King  James  VI,  and 
through  his  association  with  the  Scottish  royalty 
had  acquired  the  Hawthornden  property.  The  boy 
grew  up  amid  such  surroundings,  was  educated 
at  the  University  of  Edinburgh,  and  traveled  on 
the  Continent  for  three  years  before  settling  down 
to  his  life-work,  which  he  then  thought  would 
be  the  practice  of  law.  But  scarcely  had  he  re- 
turned to  Edinburgh  for  this  purpose,  when  his 
father  died,  and  young  Drummond,  at  the  age 
of  twenty-four,  found  himself  master  of  Haw- 
thornden with  ample  means  at  his  command.  All 
thought  of  the  law  was  abandoned  forthwith. 
The  quiet  of  Hawthornden  and  the  beauty  of  its 
natural  scenery  fitted  his  temperament  exactly. 
He  had  already  acquired  a  scholar's  tastes,  had 
read  extensively,  and  possessed  a  large  library  in 
which  the  Latin  classics  predominated,  though 
there  were  many  books  in  Greek,  Hebrew,  Ital- 
ian, Spanish,  French,  and  English.  He  retired  to 
his  delightful  home  to  live  among  his  books,  and 
if  he  found  that  such  surroundings  became  a  tacit 
invitation  from  the  Muses  to  keep  them  com- 
pany, who  could  wonder  ?  "  Content  with  my 
books  and  the  use  of  my  eyes,"  he  said,  "I 
learnt  even  from  my  boyhood  to  live  beneath  my 
fortune ;  and,  dwelling  by  myself  as  much  as  I 

78 


HAWTHORNDEN  TO  ROSLIN  GLEN 

can,  I  neither  sigh  for  nor  seek  aught  that  is  out- 
side me." 

It  has  been  said  that  Drummond's  three  stars 
were  Philosophy,  Friendship,  and  Love.  Some 
three  or  four  years  after  the  poet  began  his  con- 
tented life  at  Hawthornden,  the  latter  star  began 
to  shine  so  brightly  as  to  eclipse  the  other  two. 
In  1614  he  met  an  attractive  girl  of  seventeen  or 
eighteen,  the  daughter  of  Alexander  Cunning- 
ham, of  Barns,  a  country-seat  on  a  little  stream 
known  as  the  Ore,  in  Fifeshire,  on  the  opposite 
side  of  the  Firth  of  Forth.  His  poems  began  at 
once  to  reveal  the  extent  to  which  the  loveli- 
ness of  the  fair  Euphame  had  taken  possession 
of  him :  — 

"  Vaunt  not,  fair  Heavens,  of  your  two  glorious  lights, 

Which,  though  most  bright,  yet  see  not  when  they  shine, 

And  shining  cannot  show  their  beams  divine 

Both  in  one  place,  but  part  by  days  and  nights ; 

Earth,  vaunt  not  of  those  treasures  ye  enshrine, 

Held  only  dear  because  hid  from  our  sights, 

Your  pure  and  burnished  gold  your  diamonds  fine, 

Snow-passing  ivory  that  the  eye  delights ; 

Nor,  Seas,  of  those  dear  wares  are  in  you  found ; 

Vaunt  not  rich  pearl,  red  coral,  which  do  stir 

A  fond  desire  in  fools  to  plunge  your  ground. 

Those  all  more  fair  are  to  be  had  in  her : 

Pearl,  ivory,  coral,  diamond,  suns,  gold, 

Teeth,  neck,  lips,  heart,  eyes,  hair,  are  to  behold." 

On  seeing  her  in  a  boat  on  the  Forth  he  de- 
clared her  perfection :  — 

79 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

"  Slide  soft,  fair  Forth,  and  make  a  crystal  plain ; 
Cut  your  white  locks,  and  on  your  foaming  face 
Let  not  a  wrinkle  be,  when  you  embrace 
The  boat  that  earth's  perfections  doth  contain." 

The  river  Ore,  on  the  banks  of  which  he  first 
met  his  lady-love,  became  to  Drummond  the  great- 
est river  in  the  world.  In  one  sonnet  he  com- 
pares the  tiny  stream  with  every  famous  river 
from  the  Arno  to  the  Nile ;  and  finds  that  none 
of  them 

"  Have  ever  had  so  rare  a  cause  of  praise." 

Unfortunately,  his  happiness  was  of  brief  du- 
ration, for  on  the  very  eve  of  the  marriage,  the 
young  lady  died.  Drummond's  grief  was  intense. 
One  can  almost  imagine  him  mournfully  gazing 
down  the  beautiful  glen,  which  she  might  have 
enjoyed  with  him,  and  exclaiming  — 

"  Trees,  happier  far  than  I, 

That  have  the  grace  to  heave  your  heads  so  high, 
And  overlook  those  plains ; 
Grow  till  your  branches  kiss  that  lofty  sky 
Which  her  sweet  self  contains. 
Then  make  her  know  my  endless  love  and  pains 
And  how  those  tears,  which  from  mine  eyes  do  fall 
Helpt  you  to  rise  so  tall. 
Tell  her,  as  once  I  for  her  sake  loved  breath 
So,  for  her  sake,  I  now  court  lingering  death." 

For  some  years  after  her  death,  Euphame  was 
to  Drummond  what  Beatrice  was  to  Dante  —  the 
inspirer  of  all  that  was  good  in  him.  Later  in  life 

80 


HAWTHORNDEN  TO  ROSLIN  GLEN  ,, 

he  married  Elizabeth  Logan,  a  lady  who  was 
said  to  resemble  Euphame  Cunningham,  and  she 
became  the  mother  of  his  five  sons  and  four 
daughters. 

In  front  of  the  mansion  of  Hawthornden  is  a 
venerable  sycamore,  said  to  be  five  hundred  years 
old.  In  the  month  of  January,  1619,  according 
to  a  favorite  and  oft-told  story,  Drummond  was 
sitting  beneath  this  tree,  when  he  saw  and  recog- 
nized the  huge  form  of  Ben  Jonson,  as  that  rol- 
licking hero  sauntered  toward  him  along  the  pri- 
vate road.  Jonson  had  walked  all  the  way  from 
London  to  see  what  could  be  seen  in  Scotland, 
and  one  of  the  attractions  had  been  an  invitation 
from  Drummond,  who  was  now  beginning  to  be 
known  in  England,  to  spend  two  or  three  weeks 
at  his  home.  As  he  approached,  Drummond  arose 
and  greeted  him  heartily,  saying,  — 

"  Welcome,  welcome,  royal  Ben  !  " 
To  which  Jonson  quickly  replied  — 

"Thankee,  thankee,  Hawthornden!" 

Upon  which  they  both  laughed  and  felt  well 
acquainted  at  once. 

The  contrast  between  these  two  men,  as  they 
stood  under  the  old  sycamore,  must  have  been 
strongly  marked.  Drummond,  quiet,  reserved, 
and  gentle  in  manner — Jonson,  boisterous  and 
offensively  vulgar :  Drummond,  well  dressed  and 
refined  in  appearance  —  Jonson,  fat,  coarse, 

81 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

and  slovenly ;  Drummond,  a  country  gentleman, 
accustomed  to  live  well,  but  always  within  his 
means,  caring  little  for  society,  a  man  of  correct 
habits  and  strict  piety,  and  later  in  life  a  loving 
husband  and  a  tender  father  —  Jonson,  the  dic- 
tator of  literary  London,  who  waved  his  scepter 
in  the  "  Devil  Tavern  "  in  Fleet  Street,  egotisti- 
cal and  quarrelsome,  self-assertive,  a  bully  in  dis- 
position, his  life  a  perpetual  round  of  dissipation 
and  debt,  his  means  of  livelihood  dependent  on 
luck  or  favor,  and  his  greatest  enjoyment  center- 
ing in  association  with  those  who,  like  himself, 
were  most  at  home  in  the  theaters  and  taverns 
of  the  great  bustling  city. 

Yet  both  were  poets  and  men  of  genius,  though 
in  different  ways.  In  spite  of  his  peculiarities, 
Drummond  found  "  rare  Ben  Jonson "  a  most 
interesting  companion.  He  kept  a  close  record  of 
the  conversations  which  passed  between  them, 
and  might  well  be  called  the  father  of  modern 
interviewing.  But  unlike  the  interviewer  of  to- 
day, Drummond  did  not  rush  to  the  nearest  tele- 
graph station  to  get  his  story  "  on  the  wire  "  and 
"  scoop  "  his  contemporaries.  There  were  no  tele- 
graphs nor  newspapers  to  call  for  such  effort,  and 
Drummond  had  too  much  respect  for  the  courtesy 
due  a  guest  to  think  of  publishing  their  private 
talks.  But  a  portion  of  the  material  was  pub- 
lished in  1711,  long  after  Drummond's  death, 
and  probably  the  whole  of  it  in  1832.  These 

82 


kHAWTHORNDEN  TO  ROSLIN  GLEN 

conversations  with  one  who  knew  intimately  most 
of  the  literary  leaders  of  his  time  have  proved  in- 
valuable. They  contain  Ben's  opinions  of  nearly 
everybody  —  Queen  Elizabeth,  the  Earl  of  Lei- 
cester, King  James,  Spenser,  Raleigh,  Shake- 
speare, Bacon,  Drayton,  Beaumont,  Chapman, 
Fletcher,  and  many  other  contemporaries.  Most 
of  all  they  contain  his  opinion  of  himself  and  his 
writings,  which  needless  to  say  is  quite  exalted. 

With  no  thought  of  his  notes  being  published, 
Drummond  allowed  himself  perfect  frankness  in 
writing  about  his  guest.  His  summary  of  the  im- 
pression made  by  Ben's  visit  is  as  follows :  — 

He  is  a  great  lover  and  praiser  of  himself ;  a  con- 
temner  and  scorner  of  others ;  given  rather  to  lose  a 
friend  than  a  jest ;  jealous  of  every  word  and  action 
of  those  about  him  (especially  after  drink,  which  is 
one  of  the  elements  in  which  he  liveth)  ;  a  dissembler 
of  ill  parts  which  reign  in  him,  a  bragger  of  some  good 
that  he  wanteth ;  thinketh  nothing  well  but  what  either 
he  himself  or  some  of  his  friends  and  countrymen  hath 
said  or  done :  he  is  passionately  kind  and  angry ;  care- 
less either  to  gain  or  keep ;  vindictive,  but,  if  he  be 
well  answered,  at  himself.  For  any  religion,  as  being 
versed  in  both.  Interpreted  best  sayings  and  deeds 
often  to  the  worst.  Oppressed  with  phantasy  which 
hath  ever  mastered  his  reason,  a  general  disease  in 
many  poets.  .  .  .  He  was  in  his  personal  character 
the  very  reverse  of  Shakespeare,  as  surly,  ill-natured, 
proud  and  disagreeable  as  Shakespeare,  with  ten  times 
his  merit,  was  gentle,  good-natured,  easy,  and  amiable. 

83 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

Jonson  expressed  with  equal  frankness  his  opin- 
ion of  Drummond,  to  whom  he  said  that  he  "  was 
too  good  and  simple,  and  that  oft  a  man's  modesty 
made  a  fool  of  his  wit." 

Drummond  as  a  poet  was  classed  by  Robert 
Southey  and  Thomas  Campbell  in  the  highest 
rank  of  the  British  poets  who  appeared  before 
Milton.  His  sonnets,  which  are  remarkable  for 
their  exquisite  delicacy  and  tenderness,  won  for 
him  the  title  of  "  the  Scottish  Petrarch."  It  has 
been  said  that  they  come  as  near  to  perfection  as 
any  others  of  this  kind  of  writing  and  that  as  a 
sonneteer  Drummond  is  surpassed  only  by  Shake- 
speare, Milton,  and  Wordsworth  among  the  poets 
who  have  written  in  English. 

Before  taking  leave  of  the  Scottish  poet  and 
his  picturesque  home,  we  paused  for  a  few  min- 
utes to  visit  the  wondrous  caverns,  cut  out  of  the 
solid  rock  upon  which  the  house  is  built.  Anti- 
quarians have  insisted  that  these  caves  date  back 
to  the  time  of  the  Picts,  at  least  as  far  as  the 
ninth  or  tenth  century. 

This,  too,  was  the  popular  understanding  be- 
fore the  scientists  offered  their  opinion.  In  a 
curious  old  volume,  published  in  1753,1  we  are 
told:  — 

Underneath  [the  house  of  Drummond]  are  the  noted 

Caverns  of  Hawthorn-Den,  by  Dr.  Stuckely  in  his 

Itinerarium-  Curiosa,  said  to  have  been  the  King  of 

1  Maitland's  History  of  Scotland. 

84 


HAWTHORNDEN  TO  ROSLIN  GLEN 

Pictlands  Castle  or  Palace;  which  nothing  can  shew 
the  Doctor's  Credulity  more  than  by  suffering  himself 
to  be  imposed  upon  by  the  Tattle  of  the  Vulgar,  who 
in  all  things  they  cannot  account  for,  are  ascribed  to 
the  Picts,  without  the  least  Foundation.  For  those 
caves,  instead  of  having  been  a  Castle  or  Palace,  I 
take  them  either  to  have  been  a  Receptacle  for  Rob- 
bers, or  Places  to  secure  the  People  and  their  Effects 
in,  during  the  destructive  Wars  between  the  Picts  and 
English,  and  Scots  and  English. 

During  the  contests  between  Bruce  and  Baliol 
for  the  Scottish  crown,  these  caves  became  a  place 
of  refuge  for  Bruce  and  bis  friends,  and  one 
of  the  rooms  is  still  pointed  out  as  Bruce's  bed- 
chamber. 

"  Here,  too,  are  labyrinthine  paths 

To  caverns  dark  and  low, 
Wherein  they  say  King  Robert  Bruce 
Found  refuge  from  his  foe." 

In  the  walls  are  many  square  holes,  from  twelve 
to  eighteen  inches  deep,  supposed  to  bave  been 
used  as  cupboards.  On  a  rough  table  near  one 
of  the  openings  is  a  rude  and  very  much  dam- 
aged desk,  said  to  have  been  the  property  of 
John  Knox. 

Leaving  these  gloomy  resorts  of  ancient  he- 
roes —  perhaps  of  ancient  robbers  —  we  sought  a 
brighter  and  more  cheerful  scene.  Descending 
the  path  we  reached  a  bridge  over  the  Esk  on 
which  is  a  gate  that  permitted  us  to  leave  Haw- 
thornden,  although  it  does  not  allow  wanderers 

85 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

on  the  other  side  to  enter.  The  bridge  gave  a 
fine  opportunity  for  a  farewell  view  of  the  grand 
old  mansion,  high  in  the  air  at  the  top  of  the 
cliff,  which  we  were  now  viewing  from  below. 

A  delightful  stroll  along  the  left  bank  of  the 
stream  for  about  two  miles  brought  us  to  Roslin 
Castle,  situated  on  a  rocky  promontory  high  above 
the  river.  At  the  point  of  the  peninsula  the  river 
is  narrowed  by  a  large  mass  of  reddish  sandstone 
over  which  it  falls.  When  flooded  this  becomes  a 
beautiful  cascade,  —  whence  the  name,  "  Ross," 
a  Gaelic  word  meaning  promontory  or  jutting 
rock,  and  "Lyn,"  a  waterfall,  —  the  "Rock  of 
the  Waterfall."  The  Esk,  where  it  forms  the  cas- 
cade, is  still  called  "  the  Lynn."  The  view  from 
the  promontory  is  one  of  the  most  delightful  to 
be  imagined.  The  banks  are  precipitous  and  cov- 
ered with  a  luxurious  growth  of  natural  wood. 
The  vale  seems  to  be  crowded  with  every  possible 
combination  of  trees  and  cliffs,  foliage  and  spark- 
ling stream,  that  nature  can  put  together  to  form 
a  region  of  romantic  suggestion. 

Little  now  remains  of  the  ancient  castle  of 
Roslin,  which  was  formerly  two  hundred  feet 
long  and  ninety  feet  wide.  A  few  ivy-covered 
walls  and  towers  may  still  be  seen,  in  the  midst 
of  which  is  a  more  modern  dwelling  rebuilt  in 
1653.  The  ancient  foundation  walls,  nine  feet 
thick,  still  visible  below  the  surface,  and  the  al- 
most inaccessible  location  of  the  castle  tell  the 

86 


HAWTHORNDEN  TO  ROSLIN  GLEN 

story  of  its  original  purpose.  A  huge  kitchen, 
with  the  fireplace  alone  occupying  as  much  space 
as  the  entire  kitchen  of  one  of  our  modern  houses, 
suggests  the  lavish  scale  upon  which  the  estab- 
lishment was  once  conducted. 

The  castle  was  built  by  a  family  of  St.  Glairs, 
whose  ancestor,  Waldernus  de  St.  Glair,  came  over 
with  the  Conqueror.  William  St.  Glair,  Baron  of 
Roslin,  Earl  of  Caithness  and  Prince  of  the  Ork- 
neys, who  flourished  in  the  middle  of  the  fifteenth 
century,  was  one  of  the  most  famous  of  these 
barons.  He  lived  in  the  magnificence  of  royal 
state. 

He  kept  a  great  court  and  was  royally  served  at  his 
own  table  in  vessels  of  gold  and  silver.  .  .  .  He  had 
his  halls  and  other  apartments  richly  adorned  with 
embroidered  hangings.  His  princess,  Elizabeth  Doug- 
las, was  served  by  seventy-five  gentlewomen,  whereof 
fifty-three  were  daughters  of  noblemen,  all  clothed  in 
velvet  and  silks,  with  their  chains  of  gold,  and  other 
ornaments ;  and  was  attended  by  two  hundred  riding 
gentlemen  in  all  her  journeys ;  and  if  it  happened  to 
be  dark  when  she  went  to  Edinburgh,  where  her  lodg- 
ings were  at  the  foot  of  the  Black  Friar's  Wynd,  eighty 
lighted  torches  were  carried  before  her.1 

The  castle  was  accidentally  set  on  fire  in  1447 
and  badly  damaged,  and  was  leveled  to  the  ground 
by  English  forces  under  the  Earl  of  Hertford,  in 

1  From  an  old  manuscript,  in  the  Advocates'  Library,  collec- 
tion of  Richard  Augustine  Hay. 

87 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

1544,  who  was  sent  to  Scotland  by  Henry  VIII 
to  seek  to  enforce  the  marriage  of  his  son  Edward 
to  the  infant  Mary  of  Scotland,  the  daughter  of 
James  V.  In  1650  it  was  again  destroyed,  during 
Crom well's  campaign  in  Scotland,  by  General 
Monk,  and  rising  again,  suffered  severely  at  the 
hands  of  a  mob  from  Edinburgh  in  1688. 

It  was  William  St.  Glair,  the  feudal  baron  above 
referred  to,  who  built  the  exquisitely  beautiful 
chapel  which  stands  not  far  from  the  castle.  The 
same  ancient  manuscript,  previously  quoted,  in- 
forms us  that 

His  age  creeping  on  him  made  him  consider  how  he 
had  spent  his  time  past,  and  how  to  spend  that  which 
was  to  come.  Therefore  to  the  end  he  might  not  seem 
altogether  unthankfull  to  God  for  the  benefices  re- 
ceaved  from  Him,  it  came  in  his  minde  to  build  a  house 
for  God's  service  of  most  curious  work,  the  which, 
that  it  might  be  done  with  greater  glory  and  splen- 
dour he  caused  artificers  to  be  brought  from  other  re- 
gions and  forraigne  kingdoms  and  caused  dayly  to  be 
abundance  of  all  kinde  of  workemen  present,  etc.,  etc. 

The  foundation  of  Roslin  Chapel  was  laid  in 
14A6.  It  was  originally  intended  to  be  a  cruci- 
form structure  with  a  high  central  tower.  The 
existing  chapel  is,  therefore,  really  only  a  small 
part  of  what  the  church  was  meant  to  be.  Its 
style  is  called  "  florid  Gothic,"  but  this  is  proba- 
bly for  want  of  a  better  name.  There  is  no  other 
piece  of  architecture  like  it  in  the  world.  It  is  a 

88 


HAWTHORNDEN  TO  ROSLIN  GLEN 

medley  of  all  architectures,  the  Egyptian,  Grecian, 
Roman,  and  Saracenic  being  intermingled  with 
all  kinds  of  decorations  and  designs,  some  exquis- 
itely beautiful  and  others  quaint  and  even  gro- 
tesque. There  are  thirteen  different  varieties  of 
the  arch.  The  owner,  who  possessed  great  wealth, 
desired  novelty.  He  secured  it  by  engaging  archi- 
tects and  builders  from  all  parts  of  Europe.  The 
most  beautiful  feature  of  the  interior  is  known  as 
the  "  'Prentice's  Pillar."  It  is  a  column  with 
richly  carved  spiral  wreaths  of  beautiful  foliage 
twined  about  from  floor  to  ceiling.  It  is  said  that 
the  master-builder,  when  he  came  to  erect  this 
column,  found  himself  unable  to  carry  out  the 
design,  and  traveled  to  Rome  to  see  a  column  of 
similar  description  there.  When  he  returned  he 
found  that  his  apprentice  had  studied  the  plans 
in  his  absence  and  with  greater  genius  than  his 
own,  had  overcome  the  difficulties  and  fashioned 
a  pillar  more  beautiful  than  any  ever  before 
dreamed  of.  The  master,  stung  with  jealous  rage, 
struck  the  apprentice  with  his  mallet,  killing  him 
instantly.  This,  at  least,  is  the  accepted  legend. 
The  barons  of  Roslin  were  buried  beneath  the 
chapel  side  by  side,  encased  in  their  full  suits  of 
armor.  There  was  a  curious  superstition  that  when 
one  of  the  family  died,  the  chapel  was  enveloped 
in  flames,  but  not  consumed.  This  and  the  "  un- 
coffined  chiefs  "  are  referred  to  by  Scott  in  "  The 
Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel."  The  lady  is  lost  in 

89 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

the  storm  while  crossing  the  Firth  on  her  way  to 
Eoslin :  — 

"  O'er  Roslin  all  that  dreary  night 

A  wondrous  blaze  was  seen  to  gleam ; 
'T  was  broader  than  the  watch-fire  light, 
And  redder  than  the  bright  moonbeam. 

"  It  glared  on  Roslin's  castled  rock, 

It  ruddied  all  the  copsewood  glen ; 
'T  was  seen  from  Dreyden's  groves  of  oak, 
And  seen  from  caverned  Hawthornden. 

"  Seemed  all  on  fire  that  chapel  proud 

Where  Roslin's  chiefs  uncoffined  lie, 
Each  baron,  for  a  sable  shroud, 
Sheathed  in  his  iron  panoply. 

"  Seemed  all  on  fire  within,  around, 
Deep  sacristy  and  altar's  pale  ; 
Shone  every  pillar  foliage-bound, 

And  glimmered  all  the  dead  men's  mail. 

"  Blazed  battlement  and  pinnet  high, 

Blazed  every  rose-carved  buttress  fair  — 
So  still  they  blaze  when  fate  is  nigh 
The  lordly  line  of  high  St.  Clair. 

"  There  are  twenty  of  Roslin's  barons  bold 
Lie  buried  within  that  proud  chapelle ; 
Each  one  the  holy  vault  doth  hold  — 
But  the  sea  holds  lovely  Rosabelle." 

Commemorated  by  a  tablet  in  the  chapel  is 
another  interesting  legend.  Robert  Bruce,  King 
of  Scotland,  in  following  the  chase  on  Pentland 
Hills  near  Roslin,  had  often  started  "  a  white 

90 


HAWTHORNDEN  TO  ROSLIN  GLEN 

faunch  deer  "  which  invariably  escaped  from  his 
hounds.  In  his  vexation  he  asked  his  nobles 
whether  any  of  them  had  hounds  which  would 
likely  be  more  successful.  All  hesitated  for  fear 
that  the  mere  suggestion  of  possessing  dogs  su- 
perior to  those  of  the  king  might  be  an  offense. 
But  Sir  William  St.  Clair  (one  of  the  predeces- 
sors of  the  builder  of  the  chapel)  boldly  and  un- 
ceremoniously came  forward  and  said  he  would 
wager  his  head  that  his  two  favorite  dogs  Hold 
and  Help  would  kill  the  deer  before  it  could 
cross  the  March  burn.  The  king  promptly  ac- 
cepted the  rash  wager,  and  betted  the  forest  of 
Pentland  Moor. 

The  hunters  reach  the  heathern  steeps  and  Sir  Wil- 
liam, posting  himself  in  the  best  situation  for  slipping 
his  dogs,  prayed  devoutly  to  Christ,  the  Virgin  Mary, 
and  St.  Katherine.  The  deer  is  started,  the  hounds 
are  slipped ;  when  Sir  William  spurs  his  gallant  steed 
and  cheers  the  dogs.  The  deer  reaches  the  middle  of 
the  March-burn  brook,  the  hounds  are  still  in  the 
rear,  and  our  hero's  life  is  at  its  crisis.  An  awful  mo- 
ment ;  the  hunter  threw  himself  from  his  horse  in  de- 
spair and  Fate  seemed  to  sport  with  his  feelings.  At 
the  critical  moment  Hold  fastened  on  the  game,  and 
Help  coming  up,  turned  the  deer  back  and  killed  it 
close  by  Sir  William's  side.  The  generous  monarch 
embraced  the  knight  and  bestowed  on  him  the  lands 
of  Kirktown,  Logan  House,  Earnsham,  etc.,  in  free 
forestrie.1 

1  Britten's  Architectural  Antiquities. 
91 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

The  grateful  Sir  William  erected  a  chapel  to 
St.  Katherine,  at  the  spot,  to  commemorate  the 
saint's  intervention. 

One  more  tale  of  Eoslin  remains  to  be  told. 
Not  far  away,  on  Roslin  Moor,  occurred  one  of 
the  famous  battles  of  Scottish  history.  There 
•were  really  three  battles,  all  fought  in  one  day, 
the  24th  of  February,  1303.  Three  divisions  of 
the  English  army,  consisting  of  thirty  thousand 
men,  were  successively  attacked  by  the  valiant 
Scots  with  only  ten  thousand  men,  who,  after 
overpowering  the  first  division,  attacked  the  sec- 
ond, and  then  the  third,  defeating  all  three  in 
the  same  day. 

And  so,  with  history  and  legend,  poetry  and 
romance,  real  life  and  fiction,  the  glory  of  na- 
ture's art  and  the  achievements  of  human  handi- 
craft all  happily  intermingled  in  our  thought 
and  blended  into  one  pleasant  memory,  we  brought 
to  its  close  our  walk  through  the  valley  of  the 
Esk,  from  Hawthornden  to  Roslin  Glen. 


V 
THE  COUNTRY  OF  MRS.  HUMPHRY  WARD 


THE  COUNTRY  OF  MRS.  HUMPHRY  WARD 
I 

MRS.    WARD    AND    HER    WORK 

WHY  does  any  one  stay  in  England  who 
can  make  the  trip  to  Paradise  ? '  said  the 
duchess,  as  she  leaned  lazily  back  in  the  corner 
of  the  boat  and  trailed  her  fingers  in  the  waters 
of  Como." 

These  words  from  "  Lady  Rose's  Daughter  " 
came  to  mind  as  we  glided  swiftly  in  a  little 
motor-boat,  late  in  the  afternoon  of  a  perfect 
April  day,  over  the  smooth  waters  of  Como  and 
into  the  arm  of  the  lake  known  as  Lecco,  where 
we  were  to  enjoy  our  cup  of  tea  in  a  little  latteria 
high  up  on  a  rocky  crag.  In  the  stern  sat  Mrs. 
Ward,  looking  the  picture  of  contentment,  a  light 
summer  hat  with  simple  trimmings  giving  an  al- 
most girlish  aspect  to  a  face  in  which  strong 
intellectuality  and  depth  of  moral  purpose  were 
clearly  the  predominating  features.  A  day's  work 
done,  — for  Mrs.  Ward  goes  to  Como  for  work,  not 
play,  —  this  little  trip  across  the  lake  was  one  of 
her  favorite  recreations,  in  which,  for  the  time, 
we  were  hospitably  permitted  to  share.  About 

95 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

us  were  the  scenes  "  enchanted,  incomparable," 
which  are  best  described  in  the  words  of  Mrs. 
Ward  herself :  — 

When  Spring  descends  upon  the  shores  of  the  Lago 
di  Como,  she  brings  with  her  all  the  graces,  all  the 
beauties,  all  the  fine,  delicate,  and  temperate  delights 
of  which  earth  and  sky  are  capable,  and  she  pours 
them  forth  upon  a  land  of  perfect  loveliness.  Around 
the  shores  of  other  lakes  —  Maggiore,  Lugano,  Garda 
—  blue  mountains  rise  and  the  vineyards  spread  their 
green  and  dazzling  terraces  to  the  sun.  Only  Como 
can  show  in  unmatched  union  a  main  composition,  in- 
comparably grand  and  harmonious,  combined  with 
every  jeweled  or  glowing  or  exquisite  detail.  Nowhere 
do  the  mountains  lean  towards  each  other  in  such  an 
ordered  splendor  as  that  which  bends  around  the 
northern  shores  of  Como.  Nowhere  do  buttressed 
masses  rise  behind  each  other,  to  right  and  left  of  a 
blue  waterway,  in  lines  statelier  or  more  noble  than 
those  kept  by  the  mountains  of  Leeco  Lake  as  they 
marshal  themselves  on  either  hand,  along  the  ap- 
proaches to  Lombardy  and  Venetia. 

.  .  .  And  within  this  divine  framework,  between 
the  glistening  snows  which  still,  in  April,  crown  and 
glorify  the  heights,  and  those  reflections  of  them 
which  lie  encalmed  in  the  deep  bosom  of  the  lake, 
there  's  not  a  foot  of  pasture,  not  a  shelf  of  vineyard, 
not  a  slope  of  forest,  where  the  spring  is  not  at  work, 
dyeing  the  turf  with  gentians,  starring  it  with  narcis- 
suses, or  drawing  across  it  the  first  golden  network  of 
the  chestnut  leaves ;  where  the  mere  emerald  of  the 
grass  is  not  in  itself  a  thing  to  refresh  the  very 
springs  of  being ;  where  the  peach -blossom  and  the 

96 


MRS.    HUMPHRY    WARD    AND    MISS    DOROTHY    WARD 


THE  COUNTRY  OF  MRS.  WARD 

wild  cherry  and  the  olive  are  not  perpetually  weaving 
patterns  on  the  blue  which  ravish  the  very  heart  out 
of  your  breast.  And  already  the  roses  are  beginning 
to  pour  over  the  wall ;  the  wistaria  is  climbing  up  the 
cypresses  ;  a  pomp  of  camellias  and  azaleas  is  in  all 
the  gardens ;  while  in  the  glassy  bays  that  run  up  into 
the  hills  the  primrose  banks  still  keep  their  sweet 
austerity,  and  the  triumph  of  spring  over  the  just 
banished  winter  is  still  sharp  and  new. 

It  was  in  a  garden  such  as  this,  with  a  wild 
cherry  tree  and  olives  "  perpetually  weaving  pat- 
terns "  against  the  blue  sky,  that  we  first  met 
Mrs.  Ward.  It  was  a  balmy  April  morning.  The 
scent  of  spring  was  in  the  air,  and  the  birds  were 
adding  their  melody  to  the  beauty  of  the  land- 
scape. The  villa  stands  well  up  the  slope  of  a  high 
hill  and  is  reached  by  a  winding  path  through 
fragrant  trees.  A  little  below  the  level  of  the 
house  is  a  shady  nook,  well  sheltered  from  the 
sun,  from  which  the  high  mountains  of  the  north 
and  the  blue  glimmer  of  the  lake  beneath  can  be 
plainly  seen.  Here  we  were  greeted  by  the  novelist 
in  terms  of  cordiality  that  instantly  made  us  "  feel 
at  home."  There  was  no  posing,  none  of  that 
condescension  which  some  writers  had  led  us  to 
expect.  We  were  simply  welcomed  as  friends, 
with  a  perfect  hospitality  that  seemed  to  be  born 
of  the  tranquil  beauty  all  about  us. 

Mrs.  Ward  is  a  woman  of  rather  more  than 
medium  height  and  of  erect  and  graceful  car- 

97 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

riage.  Her  manner  is  dignified,  but  it  is  the  dig- 
nity of  one  properly  conscious  of  her  own  strength 
and  is  never  repellent.  One  cannot  help  feeling 
that  he  is  in  the  presence  of  a  distinguished  per- 
son —  one  who  has  justly  earned  a  world-wide 
fame  —  and  yet  one  in  whom  the  attributes  of 
true  womanliness  reign  supreme.  You  are  proud 
of  the  honor  of  her  friendship,  and  yet  you  can- 
not help  thinking  what  an  excellent  neighbor  she 
would  be. 

The  instinct  which  impels  Mrs.  Ward  to  seek 
such  scenes  of  beauty  as  Lake  Como  in  which  to 
do  her  writing  came  to  her  naturally,  for  her 
childhood  was  spent  in  one  of  the  most  beautiful 
parts  of  all  England,  Westmoreland,  the  home  of 
Wordsworth  and  of  Ruskin.  Here  "  Arnold  of 
Rugby  "  made  his  home  in  a  charmingly  situated 
cottage  known  as  Fox  How.  "  Fox,"  in  the  lan- 
guage of  Westmoreland,  means  "fairy,"  and 
"  how"  is  "  hill."  A  "fairy  hill"  indeed  it  must 
have  seemed  to  Dr.  Arnold's  little  granddaughter 
Mary,  when  as  a  child  of  five  she  was  brought 
there  by  her  father  from  far-away  Tasmania, 
where  she  was  born.  The  English  Lakes  are 
famous  for  their  beauty,  but  there  is  no  more 
delightful  spot  in  all  the  region  than  the  valley 
"  under  Loughrigg,"  and  no  lovelier  river  than  the 
Rothay,  rippling  over  the  smooth  pebbles  from 
Wordsworth's  beloved  Rydal  Water  down  to  the 
more  pretentious  grandeur  of  Lake  Windermere. 

98 


THE  COUNTRY  OF  MRS.  WARD 

The  impressions  of  her  childhood  created  in  the 
future  novelist  an  intense  love  of  these  streams 
and  mountains,  which  only  increased  with  her 
absence  and  the  enlargement  of  her  field  of 
vision.  When  she  was  the  mother  of  a  little  girl 
of  seven  and  a  boy  of  four,  she  determined  to 
give  to  them  the  same  impressions  which  had  de- 
lighted her  own  childhood,  and  the  family  made 
an  ever-memorable  visit  from  Oxford,  where  they 
were  then  living,  to  the  vicinity  of  Fox  How  — 
a  visit  which  all  children  may  enjoy  who  will  read 
the  pretty  little  story  of  "Milly  and  Oily." 

Mary  Augusta  Arnold  was  born  in  Tasmania 
on  the  llth  of  June,  1851.  Her  father,  Thomas 
Arnold,  second  son  of  Dr.  Arnold  of  Rugby  and 
brother  of  Matthew  Arnold,  was  at  that  time  In- 
spector of  Schools  in  the  far-away  island.  He  had 
married  the  granddaughter  of  Colonel  Sorell,  a 
former  Governor  of  Tasmania,  and  no  doubt  in- 
tended to  remain  there  permanently.  But,  be- 
coming interested,  even  at  that  distance,  in  the 
so-called  "  Oxford  Movement "  of  the  middle  of 
the  last  century,  he  determined  to  return  to  Eng- 
land, where  he  followed  Newman  and  others  into 
the  Roman  Catholic  Church,  accepting  a  pro- 
fessorship of  English  Literature  in  the  Catholic 
University  of  Dublin.  His  daughter  Mary,  the 
eldest  of  six,  was  sent  to  Ambleside  to  be  edu- 
cated. In  1865,  having  renounced  the  Catholic 
faith,  Mr.  Arnold  took  up  his  residence  at 

99 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

Oxford.  Here  his  eldest  daughter,  at  the  age  of 
fourteen,  came  under  the  influence  of  the  friend- 
ships and  associations  which  were  to  have  so  po- 
tent an  influence  upon  her  future  career.  The 
most  important  of  these  were  Professor  Mark 
Pattison  and  the  Bodleian  Library.  Professor 
Pattison  strongly  urged  her  to  specialize  her 
studies,  and  acting  upon  his  suggestion,  she 
learned  the  Spanish  language  and  began  a  course 
of  study  in  Spanish  literature  and  history,  in 
which  she  found  the  facilities  of  the  Bodleian 
Library  invaluable.  In  1872  she  became  the  wife 
of  Mr.  Thomas  Humphry  Ward,  then  a  fellow 
and  tutor  in  Brasenose  College.  During  the  en- 
suing ten  or  eleven  years  Mrs.  Ward  assisted  her 
husband  in  his  literary  work  and  contributed 
largely  to  the  "  Pall  Mall  Gazette,"  the  "Saturday 
Review,"  the  "  Academy,"  and  other  magazines, 
besides  publishing  the  little  book  for  children 
already  referred  to,  "  Milly  and  Oily." 

In  1881  Mr.  Ward  accepted  a  position  on  the 
staff  of  the  "  Times,"  and  the  family  removed  to 
London.  For  several  years  they  occupied  a  house 
in  Russell  Square,  which  Mrs.  Ward  still  regards 
with  fond  memories,  later  removing  to  their  pres- 
ent town  house,  No.  25  Grosvenor  Place.  But 
Mrs.  Ward's  love  of  nature  is  too  intense  for  an 
uninterrupted  residence  in  London,  and  she  pos- 
sesses an  ideal  country  home  some  thirty  miles 
away,  near  the  little  village  of  Aldbury,  known 

100 


THE  COUNTRY  OF  MRS.  WARD 

as  "  Stocks."  This  large  and  beautiful  estate  is 
ancient  enough  to  be  mentioned  in  "  Domesday 
Book."  Its  name  does  not  come  from  the  old 
"stocks"  used  as  an  instrument  of  punishment, 
which  may  still  be  seen  in  the  village,  although 
this  is  a  common  supposition.  "Stocks"  is  de- 
rived from  the  German  "  stock,"  meaning  stick 
or  tree,  and  refers  to  the  magnificent  grove  by 
which  the  house  is  surrounded. 

Before  Stocks  became  a  possibility,  Mrs.  Ward 
usually  managed  to  choose  a  summer  home  in  the 
country,  and  these  choices  are  most  interestingly 
reflected  in  her  novels.  During  the  Oxford  resi- 
dence Surrey  was  a  favorite  resort  for  seven  years, 
its  atmosphere  entering  largely  into  the  com- 
position of  "Miss  Bretherton"  and  "Robert 
Elsmere."  Two  nights  spent  at  a  farm  on  the 
Kinderscout  gave  ample  material  for  the  open- 
ing chapter  of  the  "History  of  David  Grieve." 
The  lease  for  a  season  of  Hampden  House,  in 
Buckinghamshire,  gave  the  original  for  Mellor 
Park  in  "  Marcella,"  and  a  visit  near  Crewe  fixed 
the  scenes  of  "  Sir  George  Tressady."  "  Helbeck 
of  Bannisdale  "  was  the  result  of  a  summer  spent 
in  the  delightful  home  of  Captain  Bagot,  of  Lev- 
ens  Hall,  near  Kendal.  Summers  in  Italy  and 
Switzerland  gave  most  charming  scenery  for 
"  Lady  Rose's  Daughter"  and  "Eleanor,"  and, 
to  a  less  degree,  "The  Marriage  of  William 
Ashe."  The  cottage  of  her  youngest  daughter, 

101 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

Dorothy,  near  the  Langdale  Pikes,  suggested  the 
home  of  Fenwick,  while  Diana  Mallory  found 
her  home  in  Stocks  itself.  Thus  the  creatures  of 
Mrs.  Ward's  fancy  have  simply  lived  in  the  places 
which  she  knew  the  best.  They  are  all  scenes  of 
beauty,  for  Mrs.  Ward  loves  the  beautiful  in 
nature,  and  has  spent  her  life  where  this  yearn- 
ing could  be  most  fully  gratified. 

But  if  Mrs.  Ward  seeks  the  country  as  the 
best  place  for  literary  work,  she  is  not  idle  when 
in  the  city.  If  any  one  imagines  her  to  be  merely 
a  society  woman  with  a  genius  for  literature,  he 
is  making  a  serious  mistake.  Outside  of  society 
and  literature  she  is  a  busy  woman,  bent  on  the 
accomplishment  of  a  task  which  few  would  have 
the  courage  to  assume.  Her  ideal  is  best  expressed 
in  the  closing  words  of  "Robert  Elsrnere"  :  — 

The  New  Brotherhood  still  exists,  and  grows.  There 
are  many  who  imagined  that,  as  it  had  been  raised 
out  of  the  earth  by  Elsmere's  genius,  so  it  would  sink 
with  him.  Not  so  !  He  would  have  fought  the  struggle 
to  victory  with  surpassing  force,  with  a  brilliancy  and 
rapidity  none  after  him  could  rival.  But  the  struggle 
was  not  his.  His  effort  was  but  a  fraction  of  the  effort 
of  the  race.  In  that  effort,  and  in  the  Divine  force 
behind  it,  is  our  trust,  as  was  his. 

These  words,  written  nearly  a  quarter  of  a 
century  ago,  were  truly  prophetic.  For  Mrs. 
Ward  not  only  possesses  the  kind  of  genius  from 
which  an  Elsmere  could  be  created,  but  is  gifted 

102 


THE  COUNTRY  OF  MRS.  WARD 

with  a  rare  capacity  for  business,  which  has  en- 
abled her  to  crystallize  the  ideals  of  her  work  of 
fiction  into  a  substantial  and  permanent  institu- 
tion for  practical  benevolence.  She  was  already 
interested  in  "settlement"  work  among  the  poor 
of  London  during  the  writing  of  the  novel.  But 
in  1891,  after  the  storm  of  criticism  which  the 
book  aroused  had  subsided,  its  suggestions  be- 
gan to  take  definite  shape  in  the  organization 
of  the  Passmore  Edwards  Settlement,  in  Uni- 
versity Hall,  in  Gordon  Square.  In  1898  the 
work  was  moved  to  its  present  quarters  in  Tavi- 
stock  Place,  where,  under  the  leadership  of  Mrs. 
Ward  and  through  the  generosity  of  herself  and 
the  friends  whom  she  had  been  able  to  influ- 
ence, a  large  and  substantial  building  was  erected. 
Directly  in  the  rear  of  the  building  is  a  large 
garden  owned  by  the  Duke  of  Bedford,  who 
recently  placed  it  at  the  disposal  of  the  Settle- 
ment, keeping  it  in  order  at  his  own  expense,  re- 
sowing  the  grass  every  year  to  keep  it  fresh  and 
thick.  Here  in  the  vacation  season  one  thousand 
children  daily  enjoy  the  luxury  of  sitting  and 
walking  on  the  grass,  and  that  in  the  heart  of 
central  London.  The  garden  occupies  the  site 
of  Dickens' s  Tavistock  House.  One  cannot  help 
imagining  the  author  of  Little  Nell  sitting  there 
in  spirit  while  troops  of  happy  London  children 
pass  in  review.  The  land  here  placed  entirely 
at  the  disposal  of  Mrs.  Ward  and  the  warden 

103 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA. 

of  the  Settlement  is  worth  not  less  than  half  a 
million  dollars.  Twenty-seven  teachers,  under 
the  direction  of  a  competent  supervisor,  give  in- 
struction in  organized  out-of-door  exercises. 

This  was  the  first  of  the  recreation  schools  or 
play  centers.  Handwork  occupations,  such  as 
cooking — both  for  girls  and  boys  —  sewing,  knit- 
ting, basket-work,  carpentering,  cobbling,  clay 
modeling,  painting  and  drawing ;  dancing  com- 
bined with  old  English  songs  and  nursery  rhymes ; 
musical  drill  and  gymnastics;  quiet  games  and 
singing  games;  acting;  and  a  children's  library 
of  story-books  and  picture-books  —  these  are  the 
provisions  which  have  been  made  for  the  fortu- 
nate children  of  that  locality. 

The  entire  purpose  of  such  play  centers  is  to 
rescue  the  children  of  the  poor  from  the  demor- 
alization that  results  from  being  turned  out  to 
play  after  school  hours  in  the  streets  and  alley- 
ways, where  they  are  subjected  to  every  kind  of 
vile  association  and  influence.  The  effects  already 
noted  by  those  in  charge  of  the  centers  are  im- 
provement in  manners,  in  thoughtf ulness  for  the 
little  ones,  and  in  unselfishness ;  increase  in  re- 
gard for  truth  and  honesty  ;  the  development  of 
the  instinct  in  all  children  to  "  make  something  " ; 
the  teaching  that  it  is  more  enjoyable  to  play  to- 
gether in  harmony  than  when  obedience  to  a 
leader  is  refused.  The  success  of  this  first  experi- 
ment was  so  marked  that  gradually  other  centers 

104 


THE  COUNTRY  OF  MRS.  WARD 

were  started  in  different  parts  of  London.  Liberal 
sums  of  money  were  placed  in  the  hands  of  Mrs. 
Ward,  who  enlisted  the  support  of  the  County 
Council  to  the  extent  of  securing  facilities  in  the 
public  school  buildings.  The  work  has  so  far  pro- 
gressed that  the  total  attendance  last  year1  reached 
an  aggregate  of  six  hundred  thousand.  It  is  diffi- 
cult to  estimate  from  these  figures  how  many 
children  were  affected,  but,  taking  —  at  a  guess 
—  fifty  times  as  the  average  attendance  of  each, 
this  would  mean  that  the  lives  of  at  least  twelve 
thousand  poor  children  were  directly  lifted  up 
by  this  practical  charity,  and  that  as  many  more 
hard-working  and  anxious  parents  were  indirectly 
benefited. 

But  Mrs.  Ward  will  not  be  satisfied  until  the 
entire  school  population  of  London  has  been 
made  to  feel  the  influence  of  these  play  centers. 
Private  beneficence,  as  she  has  plainly  pointed 
out,  can  never  solve  the  problem.  "Private 
effort,"  said  she  in  a  well-known  letter  to  the 
London  "  Times,"  "  cannot  deal  with  seven  hun- 
dred and  fifty  thousand  children,  or  even  with 
three  hundred  thousand.  If  there  is  a  serious 
and  urgent  need,  if  both  the  physique  and  the 
morale  of  our  town  children  are  largely  at  stake, 
and  if  private  persons  can  only  touch  a  fraction 
of  the  problem,  what  remains  but  to  appeal  to  the 
public  conscience  ?  " 

1  1908. 
105 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

This  is  Mrs.  Ward's  way  of  "doing  things." 
She  does  not  appeal  to  public  authority  to  accom- 
plish an  ideal  without  first  finding  a  way  and 
proving  that  it  can  be  done.  But,  having  clearly 
demonstrated  her  proposition  at  private  expense, 
she  does  not  rest  content  with  the  results  so  ob- 
tained, but  pushes  steadily  forward  toward  the 
larger  ideal,  which  can  be  realized  only  through 
public  support. 

But  the  recreation  school  is  only  a  part  of  the 
work  of  the  Passmore  Edwards  Settlement.  Dur- 
ing the  daytime  many  of  the  rooms  are  used  by 
the  "  Cripple  Schools."  Children  who  are  suffer- 
ing from  spinal  diseases,  heart  trouble,  and  de- 
formities of  various  kinds  which  prevent  attend- 
ance at  the  regular  schools  are  daily  brought  to 
the  Settlement  in  ambulances.  Here  the  little 
ones  do  all  kinds  of  kindergarten  work,  while 
the  older  ones  are  instructed  in  drawing,  sewing, 
bent-iron  work,  and  other  suitable  tasks.  As  an 
outgrowth  of  this  school  twenty-three  cripple 
schools  are  now  in  operation  in  London. 

But  it  is  in  the  evening  that  the  Passmore 
Edwards  Settlement  is  seen  to  best  advantage. 
There  is  a  large  library  containing  some  three 
thousand  volumes,  which  are  kept  in  active  use. 
On  Monday  nights  two  tables  in  this  room  are 
the  centers  of  busy  groups.  These  represent  the 
"  coal  club,"  a  businesslike  charity  of  a  very 
practical  kind.  The  club  buys  a  large  quantity 

106 


THE  COUNTRY  OF  MRS.  WARD 

of  coal  in  the  summer-time,  when  it  can  be  ob- 
tained cheapest.  As  a  large  consumer,  it  usually 
gets  every  possible  concession.  The  members  of 
this  club  can  buy  the  coal  in  small  quantities  as 
wanted,  or  as  they  are  able  to  pay  for  it,  at  any 
time  during  the  year,  at  the  summer  price  of  one 
shilling  one  and  a  half  pence  per  hundred  weight 
(twenty-seven  cents).  If  bought  during  the  winter 
in  the  ordinary  way,  they  would  have  to  pay 
perhaps  five  or  six  pence  more  —  a  very  sub- 
stantial saving.  Thrift  is  encouraged  by  allowing 
members  to  deposit  small  sums  in  the  summer  to 
apply  against  their  winter  purchases.  Last  year  the 
club  transacted  a  business  equal  to  about  $4300. 

"The  Poor  Man's  Lawyer"  is  another  prac- 
tical part  of  the  work.  Once  each  week  free  legal 
advice  is  given  to  all  who  ask  it,  and  considerable 
money  has  been  saved  to  people  who,  from  ig- 
norance and  poverty,  might  have  been  imposed 
upon.  The  "  Men's  Club,"  the  «  Boys'  Club,"  the 
"Factory  Girls'  Club,"  and  the  "  Women's  Club  " 
are  all  actively  engaged  in  performing  the  usual 
functions  of  such  organizations.  There  is  a  gym- 
nasium where  boys  and  girls,  men  and  women,  all 
have  their  regular  turns  of  systematic  instruction. 

An  orchestra  of  a  dozen  pieces  and  a  choral 
society  of  forty  members,  together  with  a  dra- 
matic society,  give  opportunity  for  many  to  take 
part  in  numerous  concerts  and  entertainments.  A 
large  hall  is  the  scene  nearly  every  night  of  some 
107 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

kind  of  social  amusement.  The  room  is  decorated 
with  many  pictures,  all  reproductions  of  the  best 
works  of  art,  while  around  the  walls  are  placed 
busts  in  marble  of  Emerson,  James  Martineau, 
Dickens,  Matthew  Arnold,  Benjamin  Jowett,  and 
Sir  William  Herschel  —  the  gift  of  Mr.  Passmore 
Edwards.  There  is  a  large  stage  for  dramatic  per- 
formances, drills,  etc.,  with  a  piano  and  a  good 
organ.  There  are  tables  where  the  members  may 
play  cards,  smoke,  or  have  light  refreshments. 
On  Sunday  nights  there  are  concerts  or  lectures. 
The  whole  atmosphere  of  the  place  is  attractive 
to  the  men  and  women  who  frequent  it.  There  is 
no  obtrusive  piety,  no  patronizing  air,  nothing  to 
offend  the  pride  of  the  poor  man  who  values  his 
self-esteem,  yet  all  the  influences  of  the  place  are 
elevating. 

The  whole  spirit  of  the  Settlement  is  expressed 
in  these  words,  displayed  in  a  framed  notice  at 
the  entrance  to  the  social  hall :  — 

We  believe  that  many  changes  in  the  conditions  of 
life  and  labour  are  neeeded,  and  are  coming  to  pass  ; 
but  we  believe  also  that  men,  without  any  change  ex- 
cept in  themselves  and  in  their  feelings  towards  one 
another,  might  make  this  world  a  better  and  a  happier 
place. 

Therefore,  with  the  same  sympathies  but  different 
experiences  of  life,  we  meet  to  exchange  ideas  and  to 
discuss  social  questions,  in  the  hope  that,  as  we  learn 
to  know  one  another  better,  a  feeling  of  fellowship 
may  arise  among  us. 

108 


THE  COUNTRY  OF  MRS.  WARD 

To  these  ends  we  have  a  Library,  Clubs,  Lectures, 
Classes,  Entertainments,  etc.,  and  we  endeavour  to 
make  the  Settlement  a  centre  where  we  may  unite  our 
several  resources  in  a  social  and  intellectual  home. 

In  all  this  work  Mrs.  Humphry  Ward  is  the 
inspiration,  and  a  moving,  active  spirit.  Her  name 
stands  next  to  that  of  the  wealthy  Duke  of  Bed- 
ford as  the  most  liberal  contributor.  She  is  the 
Honorable  Secretary  of  the  Council,  a  member 
of  the  Finance  Committee,  president  of  the 
Women's  Club,  etc.  But  these  are  only  her 
official  positions.  Her  directing  hand  is  manifest 
in  every  branch  of  the  work,  and,  from  the  war- 
den down  to  the  humblest  member  of  the  Girls' 
Club,  her  name  is  accorded  a  respect  amounting 
almost  to  reverence. 

But,  as  with  the  play  centers,  Mrs.  Ward  is 
not  content  with  the  work  of  this  one  institution, 
splendid  as  it  is.  To  her  it  is  only  the  means  of 
ascertaining  the  way.  She  feels  that  she  is  deal- 
ing with  a  great  problem,  and  her  method  is  to 
ascertain,  first  of  all,  the  best  solution,  and  then 
to  use  her  large  influence  to  induce  others  to 
take  up  the  work.  Thus  the  "  New  Brotherhood" 
of  Robert  Elsmere  has  not  only  continued  to  ex- 
ist for  a  quarter  of  a  century,  but  has  in  it  the 
elements  of  growth  which  will  make  it  a  vital 
power  in  human  society  long  after  the  real 
Robert  Elsmere,  in  the  person  of  Mrs.  Ward,  has 
ceased  to  be  the  directing  force. 

109 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 
II 

THE   REAL    ROBERT   ELSMERE 

IN  seeking  to  point  out  the  real  persons  and 
places  of  Mrs.  Ward's  novels,  it  is  only  fair  to 
the  author  to  begin  with  her  own  statement  as 
to  the  story-teller's  method  of  procedure :  — 

An  idea,  a  situation,  is  suggested  to  him  by  real  life, 
he  takes  traits  and  peculiarities  from  this  or  that  per- 
son whom  he  has  known  or  seen,  but  that  is  all.  When 
he  comes  to  write  .  .  .  the  mere  necessities  of  an  im- 
aginative effort  oblige  him  to  cut  himself  adrift  from 
reality.  His  characters  become  to  him  the  creatures  of 
a  dream,  as  vivid  often  as  his  waking  life,  but  still  a 
dream.  And  the  only  portraits  he  is  drawing  are  por- 
traits of  phantoms,  of  which  the  germs  were  present 
in  reality,  but  to  which  he  himself  has  given  voice, 
garb,  and  action. 

It  is  my  purpose  to  point  out  some  of  these 
"  germs  of  reality  "  in  Mrs.  Ward's  work,  rely- 
ing for  the  essential  facts,  at  least,  upon  infor- 
mation given  me  personally  by  the  novelist  her- 
self. For  Mrs.  Ward  does  not  hesitate  to  admit 
that  certain  characters  were  drawn  from  real  life; 
but  she  insists  upon  a  proper  understanding  of 
the  exact  sense  in  which  this  is  true.  Because 
"  Miss  Bretherton  "  was  suggested  by  the  career 
of  Mary  Anderson  it  does  not  follow  that  all  that 
is  said  of  the  former  is  true  of  the  latter.  There 

110 


THE  COUNTRY  OF  MRS.  WARD 

is  a  vast  difference  between  a  "  suggestion  "  and 
a  "  portrait."  The  thoughts  and  feelings  or  the 
personal  characteristics  of  a  certain  individual 
may  suggest  a  character  who  in  his  physical 
aspects,  his  environment,  and  the  events  of  his 
career  may  be  conceived  as  an  individual  totally 
different.  Mrs.  Ward's  novels  contain  no  por- 
traits and  no  history.  But  they  abound  in  char- 
acters suggested  by  people  whom  she  has  known, 
in  incidents  and  reminiscences  of  real  life,  and 
in  vivid  word-pictures  of  scenes  which  she  has 
learned  to  love  or  of  places  with  which  she  is 
personally  familiar. 

A  study  of  the  scenery  of  these  novels  properly 
begins  in  the  County  of  Surrey.  About  four 
miles  southwest  of  Godalming  is  Borough  Farm, 
an  old-fashioned  brick  house,  which  we  reached 
by  a  drive  over  country  that  seemed  in  places 
almost  like  a  desert  —  so  wild  and  forsaken  that 
one  could  scarcely  believe  it  to  be  within  a  few 
miles  of  some  of  the  busiest  suburbs  of  London. 
But  it  has  a  splendid  beauty  of  its  own.  The 
thick  gorse  with  its  golden  blossoms  everywhere 
waves  a  welcome.  There  are  now  and  then  great 
oaks  to  greet  you,  and  graceful  patches  of  white 
birch.  And  everywhere  is  a  delightfully  exhila- 
rating sense  of  freedom  and  fresh  air  such  as  only 
this  kind  of  open  country  can  suggest.  Here 
Mrs.  Ward  lived  for  seven  summers,  finding  in 
the  country  round  about  some  of  the  most  inter- 
Ill 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA. 

esting  of  the  scenes  of  her  first  novel,  "Miss 
Bretherton,"  and  of  "  Robert  Elsinere." 

"Miss  Bretherton"  was  published  in  1884. 
Mary  Anderson  was  at  that  time  the  reigning 
success  on  the  London  stage,  while  Sarah  Bern- 
hardt,  in  Paris,  was  startling  the  world  with  an 
art  of  a  totally  different  character.  The  beauty 
of  the  young  American  actress  was  the  one  sub- 
ject of  conversation.  Was  it  her  beauty  that  at- 
tracted the  crowds  to  the  theater,  and  that  alone? 
Was  she  totally  lacking  in  that  consummate  art 
which  the  great  Frenchwoman  admittedly  pos- 
sessed ?  These  questions  suggested  to  Mrs.  Ward 
the  theme  of  her  first  attempt  at  fiction.  The 
beautiful  Miss  Bretherton  is  taken  in  hand  by  a 
party  of  friends  representing  the  highest  types 
of  culture.  In  their  effort  to  give  her  mind  and 
body  much-needed  rest  from  the  exactions  of 
London  society  she  is  carried  away  on  two  not- 
able excursions.  The  first  is  to  Surrey,  the  real 
scene  of  this  outing  being  a  place  near  Borough 
Farm  called  "Forked  Pond/'  well  known  to  Mrs. 
Ward  and  her  family  while  residents  at  the  farm. 
The  other  is  to  Oxford,  where,  after  admiring  the 
colleges,  which  brought  many  happy  recollec- 
tions to  the  gentlemen  of  the  party,  Miss  Breth- 
erton is  taken  to  Nuneham  Park,  a  beautiful  place 
on  the  river  where  a  small  rustic  bridge  enhances 
the  romantic  character  of  the  surroundings.  This, 
of  course,  was  familiar  ground  to  the  author,  who 

112 


THE  COUNTRY  OF  MRS.   WARD 

spent  sixteen  happy  years  in  that  vicinity  as  a 
resident  of  Oxford.  Through  the  kindness  of 
these  friends,  and  particularly  by  the  influence  of 
Kendal,  who  becomes  her  lover,  Miss  Bretherton 
is  made  to  take  a  new  view  of  her  art,  and  is  trans- 
formed into  an  actress  of  real  dramatic  power. 

Although  a  charming  story,  "  Miss  Brether- 
ton "  did  not  prove  successful  and  had  little  part 
in  making  the  reputation  of  the  novelist,  who  is 
likely  to  be  known  as  "  the  author  of  '  Robert 
Elsmere,'  "  so  long  as  her  fame  shall  endure. 
For  this  great  book  created  a  sensation  through- 
out the  English-speaking  world  when  it  appeared, 
and  aroused  controversies  which  did  not  subside 
for  many  years. 

The  scenery  of  "Robert  Elsmere"  combines 
the  Westmoreland  which  Mrs.  Ward  learned  to 
love  in  her  childhood  with  the  Oxford  of  her 
girlhood  and  early  married  life,  and  the  Surrey 
where  so  many  pleasant  summers  were  spent. 
Not  wishing,  for  fear  of  recognition,  to  describe 
the  country  near  Ambleside,  with  which  she  was 
most  familiar,  Mrs.  Ward  placed  the  scenes  of 
the  opening  chapters  in  the  neighboring  valley 
of  Long  Sleddale,  giving  it  the  name  of  Long 
Whindale.  Whinborough  is  the  city  of  Kendal, 
and  the  village  of  Shanmoor  is  Kentmere.  Bur- 
wood  Farm,  where  the  Leyburns  lived,  is  a  house 
far  up  the  valley,  which  still  "  peeps  through  the 
trees  "  at  the  passer-by  just  as  it  did  in  the  days 

113 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

when  Robert  Elsmere  first  met  the  saintly  Cath- 
erine there.  A  few  hundred  yards  down  the 
stream  is  a  little  stone  church  across  the  road 
from  a  small  stone  schoolhouse,  and  next  to  the 
school  a  gray  stone  vicarage,  standing  high  above 
the  little  river,  all  three  bearing  the  date  1863. 
At  sight  of  this  group  of  buidings  one  almost 
expects  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  well-meaning 
but  not  over- wise  Mrs.  Thornburgh,  sitting  in 
the  shade  of  the  vicarage,  awaiting  the  coming 
of  old  John  Backhouse,  the  carrier,  with  the 
anxiously  expected  consignment  of  "airy  and 
appetizing  trifles  "  from  the  confectioner's. 

At  the  extreme  end  of  the  valley  the  road  ab- 
ruptly comes  to  an  end.  A  stone  bridge  leads  off 
to  the  left  to  a  group  of  three  small  farms.  In 
front  no  sign  of  human  habitation  meets  the  eye. 
The  hills  seem  to  come  together,  forming  a  kind 
of  bowl,  and  there  is  no  sound  to  break  the  still- 
ness save  the  ripple  of  the  river.  It  was  to  this 
lonely  spot  that  Catherine  was  in  the  habit  of 
walking,  quite  alone,  to  visit  the  dying  Mary 
Backhouse.  The  house  of  John  and  Jim  Back- 
house where  Mary  died  may  still  be  seen.  It  is 
the  oldest  of  the  three  farms  above  mentioned. 
A  very  small  cottage,  it  is  wedged  between  a 
stable  on  one  side  and  a  sort  of  barn  or  store- 
house on  the  other,  so  that  from  the  road  before 
crossing  the  bridge  it  seems  to  be  quite  preten- 
tious. The  house  dates  back  to  1670. 

114 


THE  COUNTRY  OF  MRS.  WARD 

Mary  Backhouse  never  existed  except  in  im- 
agination, but  Mrs.  Ward,  upon  seeing  the  pho- 
tograph of  the  house,  exclaimed  with  much 
satisfaction,  "  Yes,  that  is  the  very  house  where 
Mary  Backhouse  died."  So  real  to  her  are  the 
events  described  in  her  novels  that  Mrs.  Ward 
frequently  refers  to  the  scenes  in  this  way.  Be- 
hind the  house  is  a  very  steep  hill,  covered  with 
trees  and  rough  stones.  It  was  over  this  hill 
that  Robert  and  Catherine  walked  on  the  night 
of  Mary  Backhouse's  death.  Readers  of  "  Robert 
Elsmere  "  will  remember  that  poor  Mary  was  the 
victim  of  a  strange  hallucination.  On  the  night 
of  Midsummer  Day,  one  year  before,  she  had 
seen  the  ghost  or  "bogle"  of  "Bleacliff  Tarn." 
To  see  the  ghost  was  terror  enough,  but  to  be 
spoken  to  by  it  was  the  sign  of  death  within  a 
year.  And  Mary  had  both  seen  and  been  spoken 
to  by  the  ghost.  Her  mind,  so  far  as  she  had  one, 
for  she  was  really  half-insane,  was  concentrated 
on  the  one  horrible  thought  —  that  on  Mid- 
summer Night  she  must  die.  The  night  had 
at  last  arrived,  and  Catherine,  true  to  her  chari- 
table impulses,  was  there  to  comfort  the  dying 
girl. 

The  weather  was  growing  darker  and  stormier; 
the  wind  shook  the  house  in  gusts,  and  the  far- 
ther shoulder  of  High  Fell  was  almost  hidden  by 
the  trailing  rain-clouds.  But  Catherine  feared 
nothing  when  a  human  soul  was  in  need,  and, 

115 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

hoping  to  pacify  the  poor  woman,  volunteered 
to  go  out  to  the  top  of  the  Fell  and  over  the 
very  track  of  the  ghost  at  the  precise  hour  when 
she  was  supposed  to  walk,  to  prove  that  there 
was  nothing  near  "  but  the  dear  old  hills  and  the 
power  of  God."  As  she  opened  the  door  of  the 
kitchen,  Catherine  was  surprised  to  find  Robert 
Elsmere  there,  and  together  they  set  out,  over  the 
rough,  stony  path,  facing  the  wind  and  rain  as 
they  climbed  the  distant  fell-side.  There  Robert 
pleaded  his  love  against  Catherine's  stern  sense 
of  duty,  and  won. 

When  Robert  and  Catherine  were  married, 
they  went  to  live  at  the  Rectory  of  Murewell,  in 
Surrey.  This  old  house  is  at  Peper  Harow,  three 
miles  west  of  Godalming  and  a  mile  or  so  from 
Borough  Farm.  It  was  leased  for  one  summer 
by  Mrs.  Ward.  A  plain,  square  house  of  stone, 
much  discolored  by  the  weather,  it  could  hardly 
be  called  attractive  in  itself.  But  stepping  back 
to  the  road,  with  its  picturesque  stone  wall  sur- 
mounted by  foliage,  and  viewing  the  house  as 
it  appears  from  there,  flanked  on  the  left  by  a 
fine  spreading  elm  and  on  the  right  by  a  tall, 
pointed  fir  and  a  cluster  of  oaks,  with  a  little 
flower  garden  under  the  windows  and  the  grace- 
fully curving  walk  leading  past  the  door  in  a 
semicircle  stretching  from  gate  to  gate,  the  ugly 
house  is  transformed  into  a  home  of  beauty, 
where  Robert  and  Catherine,  one  can  well  im- 

116 


THE  COUNTRY  OF  MRS.  WARD 

agine,  might  have  been  quite  happy  and  con- 
tented with  their  surroundings. 

In  the  rear  of  the  house  is  the  garden,  fa- 
mous for  its  phloxes,  the  scene  of  many  walks 
and  family  confidences.  At  the  farther  end  is 
the  gate  where  Langham  poured  out  the  story 
of  his  life  in  passionate  speech,  impelled  by  the 
equally  passionate  sympathy  of  Rose,  only  to 
recall  himself  a  moment  later,  "  the  critic  in 
him  making  the  most  bitter,  remorseless  mock  of 
all  these  heroics  and  despairs  the  other  self  had 
been  indulging  in." 

Only  a  short  walk  from  the  Rectory  is  the  little 
church  of  Peper  Harow,  the  scene  of  Robert's 
early  clerical  labors,  and  further  on  is  the  large 
and  beautiful  Peper  Harow  Park,  the  present 
home  of  Lord  Middleton.  This  attractive  park 
is  the  original  of  Squire  Wendover's,  but  the 
house  itself  is  not  described.  The  fine  library 
owned  by  the  Squire,  which  so  delighted  Robert 
Elsmere  with  its  many  rare  books,  was  in  reality 
the  famous  Bodleian  Library  of  Oxford,  with 
which  the  author  became  familiar  very  early  in 
life. 

Three  characters  from  real  life,  each  a  man  of 
marked  individuality,  stand  out  prominently  in 
the  pages  of  "Robert  Elsmere."  These  are  Pro- 
fessor Mark  Pattison,  whose  strong  personality 
and  scholarly  attainments  suggested  Squire  Wend- 
over  ;  Professor  Thomas  H.  Green,  the  original  of 

117 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

Mr.  Grey ;  and  the  melancholy  Swiss  philosopher, 
poet,  and  dreamer  Amiel,  who  was  the  prototype 
of  Langham. 

The  theme  of  the  novel  is  the  development 
of  Robert  Elsmere's  character  and  the  gradual 
change  of  his  religious  views,  brought  about 
through  many  a  bitter  struggle.  In  this  the  prin- 
cipal influence  was  that  of  Roger  Wendover,  a 
typical  English  squire  of  large  possessions,  but, 
in  addition,  a  scholar  of  the  first  rank,  the  pos- 
sessor of  a  large  library  filled  with  rare  and  im- 
portant volumes  of  history,  philosophy,  science, 
and  religion,  with  the  contents  of  which  he  was 
thoroughly  familiar,  and  an  author  of  two  great 
books,  one  of  which  had  stirred  up  a  tremend- 
ous excitement  in  the  circles  of  English  religious 
thought. 

The  Pentateuch,  the  Prophets,  the  Gospels,  St. 
Paul,  Tradition,  the  Fathers,  Protestantism  and  Jus- 
tification by  Faith,  the  Eighteenth  Century,  the  Broad 
Church  Movement,  Anglican  Theology  —  the  Squire 
had  his  say  about  them  all.  And  while  the  coolness 
and  frankness  of  the  method  sent  a  shock  of  indigna- 
tion and  horror  through  the  religious  public,  the  sub- 
tle and  caustic  style,  and  the  epigrams  with  which 
the  book  was  strewn,  forced  both  the  religious  and 
the  irreligious  public  to  read,  whether  they  would  or 
no.  A  storm  of  controversy  rose  round  the  volumes, 
and  some  of  the  keenest  observers  of  English  life  had 
said  at  the  time,  and  maintained  since,  that  the  pub- 
lication of  the  book  had  made  or  marked  an  epoch. 

118 


THE  COUNTRY  OF  MRS.  WARD 

Against  the  influence  of  such  a  book,  and 
more  particularly  against  a  growing  intimacy 
with  its  author,  Robert  Elsmere  felt  himself  as 
helpless  as  a  child.  The  squire's  talk  "  was  sim- 
ply the  outpouring  of  one  of  the  richest,  most 
skeptical,  and  most  highly  trained  of  minds  on 
the  subject  of  Christian  origins."  His  two  books 
were,  he  said,  merely  an  interlude  in  his  life- 
work,  which  had  been  devoted  to  an  "  exhaust- 
ive examination  of  human  records  "  in  the  prep- 
aration of  a  great  History  of  Testimony  which 
had  required  learning  the  Oriental  languages 
and  sifting  and  comparing  the  entire  mass  of 
existing  records  of  classical  antiquity  —  India, 
Persia,  Egypt,  and  Judea  —  down  to  the  Renais- 
sance. 

Reference  has  already  been  made  to  the  influ- 
ence of  Professor  Mark  Pattison  upon  the  early 
life  of  Mrs.  Ward.  To  create  the  Squire  she  had 
only  to  imagine  the  house  in  the  great  park  of 
Peper  Harow,  equipped  with  a  library  like  the 
Bodleian,  and  inhabited  by  a  person  who  might 
be  otherwise  like  any  English  squire,  but  in  men- 
tal equipment  a  duplicate  to  some  extent  of  the 
Rector  of  Lincoln.  Professor  Pattison's  father 
was  a  strict  evangelical.  He  gave  his  son  a  good 
education,  and  the  boy  early  manifested  a  delight 
in  literature  and  learning.  He  soon  developed  an 
independence  of  character,  and,  refusing  to  con- 
fine his  reading  to  the  prescribed  books  of  ortho- 

119 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

doxy,  delved  into  the  classics  extensively  as  well 
as  the  English  literature  of  Pope,  Addison,  and 
Swift.  He  was  graduated  at  Oxford  in  1836,  and 
took  his  M.A.  degree  in  1840.  By  this  time  he 
had  abandoned  the  evangelical  teachings  of  his 
youth,  and  with  other  young  men  came  under 
the  influence  of  Newman,  in  whose  house  he  went 
to  live.  When  Newman  went  into  the  Roman 
Catholic  Church  in  1845,  Pattison  was  not  so 
much  shocked  as  others.  Indeed,  he  confessed 
that  he  "  might  have  dropped  off  to  Rome  him- 
self in  some  moment  of  mental  and  physical 
depression  or  under  pressure  of  some  arguing 
convert."  But  Pattison,  who  was  now  a  Fellow 
at  Lincoln  College,  was  thoroughly  devoted  to 
his  work  and  was  fast  gaining  a  great  reputation, 
not  only  for  his  magnetic  influence  upon  young 
men,  but  as  one  of  the  ablest  of  college  tutors 
and  lecturers.  In  1861  he  became  Rector  of  Lin- 
coln. He  was  an  indefatigable  writer,  contribut- 
ing to  many  magazines  and  to  the  "  Encyclopae- 
dia Britannica."  An  article  on  "  Tendencies  of 
Religious  Thought  in  England,  1688-1750" 
aroused  widespread  comment.  His  literary  work 
was  marked  by  evidences  of  most  painstaking  re- 
search coupled  with  a  profound  scholarship  and 
excellent  judgment  in  the  arrangement  of  his 
material.  He  devoted  a  lifetime  to  the  prepara- 
tion of  a  history  of  learning  —  a  stupendous 
undertaking  of  which  only  a  portion  was  ever 

120 


THE  COUNTRY  OF  MRS.  WARD 

completed.  He  possessed  a  library  said  to  be  the 
largest  private  collection  of  his  time  in  Oxford. 
It  numbered  fourteen  thousand  volumes,  and  was 
extraordinarily  complete  in  books  on  the  history 
of  learning  and  philosophy  in  the  sixteenth,  sev- 
enteenth, and  eighteenth  centuries.  Of  Professor 
Pattison's  personality  his  biographer  says :  — 

Under  a  singularly  stiff  and  freezing  manner  to 
strangers  and  to  those  whom  he  disliked  he  concealed 
a  most  kindly  nature,  full  of  geniality  and  sympathy 
and  a  great  love  of  congenial  and  especially  of  female 
society.  But  it  was  in  his  intercourse  with  his  pupils 
and  generally  with  those  younger  than  himself  that  he 
was  seen  to  most  advantage.  His  conversation  was 
marked  by  a  delicate  irony.  His  words  were  few  and 
deliberate  but  pregnant  with  meaning  and  above  all 
stimulating,  and  their  effect  was  heightened  by  per- 
haps too  frequent  and,  especially  to  undergraduates, 
somewhat  embarrassing  flashes  of  silence. 

All  these  qualities  are  continually  appearing 
in  the  Squire.  But  Professor  Pattison's  own  defin- 
ition of  a  man  of  learning  is  the  best  description 
of  Roger  Wendover :  — 

Learning  is  a  peculiar  compound  of  memory,  im- 
agination, scientific  habit,  accurate  observation,  all 
concentrated  through  a  prolonged  period  on  the  analy- 
sis of  the  remains  of  literature.  The  result  of  this  sus- 
tained mental  endeavor  is  not  a  book,  but  a  man.  It 
cannot  be  embodied  in  print ;  it  consists  of  the  living 
word. 

121 


THE  LURE  THE  OF  CAMERA 

The  second  in  importance  of  the  potent  influ- 
ences upon  Robert  Elsmere's  character  was  that 
of  Henry  Grey,  a  tutor  of  St.  Anselm's  (Balliol 
College),  Oxford.  Very  early  in  his  Oxford  career 
Elsmere  was  taken  to  hear  a  sermon  by  Mr.  Grey, 
which  made  a  deep  impression  on  his  mind.  The 
substance  of  this  sermon,  which  is  briefly  sum- 
marized in  the  novel,  was  taken  from  a  volume 
of  lay  sermons  by  Professor  Thomas  Hill  Green, 
entitled  «  The  Witness  of  God." 

The  whole  basis  of  Grey's  thought  was  ardently 
idealist  and  Hegelian.  He  had  broken  with  the  popu- 
lar Christianity,  but  for  him  God,  consciousness,  duty, 
were  the  only  realities.  None  of  the  various  forms  of 
materialist  thought  escaped  his  challenge ;  no  genuine 
utterance  of  the  spiritual  life  of  man  but  was  sure  of 
his  sympathy.  It  was  known  that,  after  having  pre- 
pared himself  for  the  Christian  ministry,  he  had  re- 
mained a  layman  because  it  had  become  impossible  to 
him  to  accept  miracle ;  and  it  was  evident  that  the 
commoner  type  of  Churchmen  regarded  him  as  an 
antagonist  all  the  more  dangerous  because  he  was  so 
sympathetic. 

All  of  this,  like  all  the  other  references  to 
Grey  throughout  the  book,  applies  perfectly  to 
Professor  Green.  He  was  the  leading  exponent 
at  Oxford  of  the  principles  of  Kant  and  Hegel, 
and  attracted  many  followers.  His  simplicity, 
power,  and  earnestness  commanded  respect.  He 
associated  with  his  pupils  on  terms  of  friendly 

122 


THE  COUNTRY  OF  MRS.  WARD 

intimacy,  frequently  taking  some  of  them  with 
him  on  his  vacations.  He  was  a  man  of  singularly 
lofty  character,  and  those  who  knew  him  were 
reminded  of  Wordsworth,  whom  he  resembled  in 
some  ways. 

When  Elsmere  is  advised  by  his  friend  New- 
come  to  solve  all  the  problems  of  his  doubt  by 
trampling  upon  himself,  flinging  away  his  free- 
dom, and  stifling  his  intellect,  these  words  of 
Henry  Grey  flash  upon  his  mind :  — 

God  is  not  wisely  trusted  when  declared  unintel- 
ligible. Such  honor  rooted  in  dishonor  stands ;  such 
faith  unfaithful  makes  us  falsely  true. 

God  is  forever  reason ;  and  his  communication,  his 
revelation,  is  reason. 

The  words  are  taken  from  the  same  volume  of 
Professor  Green's  sermons. 

The  death  of  this  dear  friend  of  Robert  Els- 
mere  occurred  in  1882,  and  is  most  touchingly 
described.  An  old  Quaker  aunt  was  sitting  by 
his  bedside :  — 

She  was  a  beautiful  old  figure  in  her  white  cap  and 
kerchief,  and  it  seemed  to  please  him  to  lie  and  look 
at  her.  "  It  '11  not  be  for  long,  Henry,"  she  said  to 
him  once.  "I'm  seventy-seven  this  spring.  I  shall 
come  to  thee  soon."  He  made  no  reply,  and  his  silence 
seemed  to  disturb  her.  ..."  Thou  'rt  not  doubting 
the  Lord's  goodness,  Henry  ?  "  she  said  to  him,  with 
the  tears  in  her  eyes.  "No,"  he  said, "  no,  never.  Only 
it  seems  to  be  his  will;  we  should  be  certain  of  noth- 

123 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

ing  —  but  Himself  7  I  ask  no  more."  I  shall  never 
forget  the  accent  of  these  words ;  they  were  the  breath 
of  his  inmost  life. 

To  understand  the  third  of  the  three  charac- 
ters from  real  life  in  "  Robert  Elsmere,"  it  is 
necessary  to  glance  at  the  story  of  Henri  Fr£d- 
eric  Amiel,  a  Swiss  essayist,  philosopher,  and 
dreamer,  who  was  born  in  1821  and  died  in 
1881,  leaving  as  a  legacy  to  his  friends  a  "Jour- 
nal Intime"  covering  the  psychological  observa- 
tions, meditations,  and  inmost  thoughts  of  thirty 
years.  They  represented  a  prodigious  amount  of 
labor,  covering  some  seventeen  thousand  folio 
pages  of  manuscript.  This  extensive  journal  was 
translated  into  English  by  Mrs.  Ward  and  pub- 
lished in  1883,  five  years  before  the  date  of 
"Robert  Elsmere."  Her  long  and  exhaustive 
study  of  the  life  of  this  extraordinary  man  as  re- 
vealed by  himself  made  a  deep  impression  upon 
the  mind  of  the  novelist  —  so  much  so  that  she 
could  not  refrain  from  introducing  him  in  the 
person  of  the  morbid  Langham.  A  brief  glance 
at  some  of  the  peculiarities  of  Amiel  will  prove 
the  best  interpretation  of  Langham,  without 
which  the  latter  must  always  remain  a  mystery. 

Amiel's  estimate  of  the  value  of  his  life-work 
was  not  a  high  one.  "  This  Journal  of  mine,"  he 
said,  "  represents  the  material  of  a  good  many 
volumes;  what  prodigious  waste  of  thought,  of 
strength.  It  will  be  useful  to  nobody,  and  even 

124 


THE  COUNTRY  OF  MRS.  WARD 

for  myself  it  has  rather  helped  me  to  shirk  life 
than  to  practice  it."  And  again,  "Is  everything 
I  have  produced  taken  together,  my  correspond- 
ence, these  thousands  of  journal  pages,  my  lec- 
tures, my  articles,  my  poems,  my  notes  of  dif- 
ferent kinds  —  anything  better  than  withered 
leaves  ?  To  whom  and  to  what  have  I  been  use- 
ful? Will  my  name  survive  me  a  single  day? 
And  will  it  ever  mean  anything  to  anybody  ?  A 
life  of  no  account !  When  it  is  all  added  up, 
nothing ! " 

"  Amiel,"  says  Mrs.  Ward,  "  might  have  been 
saved  from  despair  by  love  and  marriage,  by 
paternity,  by  strenuous  and  successful  literary 
production." 

Family  life  attracted  him  perpetually.  "  I  can- 
not escape  from  the  ideal  of  it,"  he  said.  "  A  com- 
panion of  my  life,  of  my  work,  of  my  thoughts, 
of  my  hopes ;  within,  a  common  worship  —  to- 
wards the  world  outside,  kindness  and  benefi- 
cence ;  education  to  undertake ;  the  thousand  and 
one  moral  relations  which  develop  around  the  first 
— all  these  ideas  intoxicate  me  sometimes." 

But  in  vain.  "Reality,  the  present,  the  irre- 
parable, the  necessary,  repel  and  even  terrify  me. 
I  have  too  much  imagination,  conscience,  and 
penetration,  and  not  enough  character.  The  life 
of  thought  alone  seems  to  me  to  have  enough 
elasticity  and  immensity  to  be  free  enough  from 
the  irreparable ;  practical  life  makes  me  afraid. 

125 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

I  am  distrustful  of  myself  and  of  happiness  be- 
cause I  know  myself.  The  ideal  poisons  for  me 
all  imperfect  possession,  and  I  abhor  all  useless 
regrets  and  repentances." 

Mrs.  Ward  dramatized  this  strange  individu- 
ality in  the  character  of  Langham.  The  love- 
scene  in  which  Langham  wins  the  hand  of  the 
beautiful  Rose,  followed  by  the  all-night  mental 
struggle  in  which  he  finally  feels  compelled  to 
renounce  all  that  he  has  gained,  is  almost  tragic 
in  its  intensity. 

Poor  Langham,  with  the  prize  fairly  within 
his  grasp,  found  that  he  lacked  the  courage  to 
retain  it.  And  so  the  morning  after  the  proposal, 
instead  of  the  pleasantly  anticipated  call  from  her 
accepted  lover,  the  unfortunate  Rose  was  shocked 
to  receive  a  pessimistic  letter  announcing  that 
the  engagement  had  not  survived  the  night.  To 
the  casual  reader  it  would  seem  that  such  a  man 
as  Langham  would  be  impossible.  But  that  Amiel 
was  just  such  a  person  his  elaborate  journal  fully 
reveals.  And  Professor  Mark  Pattison  has  given 
his  testimony  that  Amiel  was  not  alone  in  his 
experiences,  for  six  months  after  the  journal  was 
published  he  wrote,  "  I  can  vouch  that  there  is 
in  existence  at  least  one  other  soul  which  has 
lived  through  the  same  struggles  mental  and 
moral  as  Amiel." 

Among  the  very  large  number  of  persons  who 
come  upon  the  stage  in  the  action  of  this  re- 

126 


THE   COUNTRY  OF  MRS.   WARD 

markable  book,  several  besides  the  Squire,  Grey, 
and  Langham  may  have  been  suggested  by  per- 
sons whom  the  author  knew.  But  the  prototypes 
of  these  three  are  the  only  ones  who  really  enter, 
in  a  vital  way,  into  the  actual  construction  of  the 
novel.  "But  who  was  the  real  Elsmere?"  one 
naturally  asks.  Many  attempts  have  been  made 
to  identify  this  good  preacher  or  that  worthy  re- 
former with  the  famous  character,  much  to  the 
annoyance  of  the  author,  who  really  created  Els- 
mere  out  of  the  influences  already  described.  The 
real  Elsmere  would  be  obviously  one  whose  re- 
ligious views  were  moulded  by  Mark  Pattison  and 
Thomas  H.  Green,  and  one  who  was  profoundly 
interested  in,  if  not  influenced  by,  the  strange 
self-distrust  of  Amiel.  The  real  Elsmere  would 
be  also  one  whose  religious  convictions  led  in- 
evitably to  the  desire  to  perform  some  practical 
service  to  mankind.  Such  an  Elsmere  exists  in 
the  person  of  Mrs.  Ward  herself,  who  is  to-day 
regarded  by  the  workers  and  associates  of  the 
Passmore  Edwards  Settlement,  in  Tavistock  Place, 
London,  with  very  much  the  same  love  and  grati- 
tude as  Elsmere  won  from  the  people  of  Elgood 
Street.  For  this  beneficent  institution  was  a  direct 
result  of  the  novel,  and  owes  its  existence  very 
largely  to  Mrs.  Ward's  energetic  and  influential 
efforts. 


127 


THE   LURE   OF  THE   CAMERA 

in 

OTHER  PEOPLE  AND  SCENERY 

"  THE  History  of  David  Grieve,"  Mrs.  Ward's 
third  novel,  is  by  many  considered,  next  to  "  Rob- 
ert Elsmere,"  her  greatest  achievement.  David 
and  his  sister  Louie  are  the  orphan  children 
of  a  sturdy  and  high-minded  Englishman  whose 
wife  was  a  French  woman  of  somewhat  doubt- 
ful character.  Their  development  from  early 
childhood  to  full  maturity  is  traced  with  a 
power  of  psychological  analysis  seldom  equaled. 
Both  are  intensely  human  and  fall  easy  prey  to 
the  temptations  of  their  environment,  but  in  the 
end  David  overcomes  the  evil  influences,  while 
poor  Louie,  inheriting  more  of  her  mother's 
temperament,  goes  to  her  death  in  poverty  and 
disgrace. 

The  most  attractive  part  of  the  book  is  the 
opening,  where  the  two  children  are  seen  roam- 
ing the  hills  of  the  wild  moorland  country  of 
their  birth.  This  is  the  Kinderscout  region,  in 
Derbyshire,  something  over  twenty  miles  south- 
east of  Manchester. 

The  visitor  must  take  the  train  ^to  Hayfield, 
called  Clough  End  in  the  novel,  and  then,  if  he 
is  fortunate  enough  to  have  permission  from 
the  owner,  may  drive  a  distance  of  four  or  five 
miles  to  what  is  now  called  Upper  House,  the 

128 


THE  COUNTRY  OF  MRS.   WARD 

country  home  of  a  wealthy  merchant  of  Man- 
chester. This  was  originally  known  as  Marriott's 
Farm,  and  for  several  hundred  years  was  owned 
by  a  family  of  that  name.  Here  Mrs.  Ward 
spent  two  days,  when  the  entire  house  consisted 
of  what  is  now  the  right  wing.  She  walked  over 
the  moors  and  along  the  top  of  the  Kinderscout 
with  Mr.  Marriott  as  her  guide,  and  thus  obtained 
the  knowledge  for  the  most  perfect  description  of 
pastoral  life  to  be  found  in  any  of  her  novels. 

Needham's  Farm,  the  home  of  David  and 
Louie,  is  the  only  other  farm  in  the  neighbor- 
hood. It  is  now  known  as  the  Lower  House, 
and  is  owned  by  the  same  Manchester  gentle- 
man, but  is  leased  to  a  family  named  Needham, 
who  have  occupied  it  for  many  years.  It  looks 
now  just  as  it  did  when  Mrs.  Ward  described  it. 

The  "  Owd  Smithy,"  where  the  prayer-meet- 
ing was  held  and  Louie  wickedly  played  the 
ghost  of  Jenny  Crum,  is  now  only  remotely 
suggested  by  a  heap  of  rocks  bearing  little  re- 
semblance to  a  building  of  any  kind.  Huge  mill- 
stones, partly  embedded  in  the  earth,  are  scat- 
tered about  here  and  there.  The  Downfall, 
which,  when  the  water  is  coming  over,  is  visible 
for  miles  around,  is  ordinarily  a  bare,  bleak  pile 
of  rocks,  for  it  is  usually  nearly  if  not  quite  dry. 
But  after  a  heavy  rain  the  water  comes  over  in 
large  volume,  and,  if  the  wind  is  strong,  is  blown 
back,  presenting  a  most  curious  spectacle  of  a 

129 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

cascade  seeming  to  disappear  in  the  air  when 
halfway  to  the  bottom.  Not  far  away  is  the 
Mermaid's  Pool,  haunted  by  the  ghost  of  Jenny 
Crum.  There  is  a  real  ghost  story  connected  with 
this  pool,  which  doubtless  formed  the  basis  of 
Mrs.  Ward's  legend.  An  old  farmer  named  Tom 
Heys  was  much  troubled  by  a  ghost,  of  which 
he  could  not  rid  himself.  He  once  shot  at  it, 
but  without  effect  except  that  the  bullet-mark 
is  in  the  old  house  even  now.  An  old  woman 
once  saw  the  ghost  while  shearing  sheep.  She 
threw  the  tongs  at  it.  Instantly  the  room  was 
filled  with  flying  fleece,  while  the  woman's  clothes 
were  cut  to  pieces  and  fell  off  her  body.  These 
were  some  of  the  troublesome  pranks  played  by 
the  ghost.  At  length  the  farmer  discovered,  some- 
where on  his  place,  an  old  skull,  which  doubtless 
belonged  to  His  Ghostship,  and  carried  it  to  the 
Mermaid's  Pool,  where  he  deposited  it 

"  To  stay  as  long  as  holly's  green, 
And  rocks  on  Kinderscout  are  seen." 

This  effectually  disposed  of  the  ghost  so  far  as 
he  was  concerned,  but  the  spirit  still  hovers  over 
the  Mermaid's  Pool. 

Market  Place,  Manchester,  where  we  find  David 
after  his  flight  from  the  old  farm,  looks  to- 
day very  much  the  same.  Half  Street,  however, 
on  the  east  of  the  cathedral,  has  disappeared. 

130 


THE  COUNTRY  OF  MRS.   WARD 

Purcell's  shop  in  this  street  was  described  from  a 
quaint  little  book-shop  which  actually  existed  at 
the  time. 

The  Parisian  scenes  of  "  David  Grieve,"  the 
Louvre,  the  Boulevards,  the  Latin  Quarter,  Fon- 
tainebleau,  Saint-Germain,  and  Barbizon,  are 
all  too  well  known  to  need  mention  here.  The 
final  scenes  of  the  novel,  where  David's  wife  is 
brought  after  the  beginning  of  her  fatal  illness, 
are  in  one  of  the  most  beautiful  localities  in  the 
English  Lake  District.  Lucy's  house  is  supposed 
to  be  on  the  right  bank  of  the  river.  The  house 
is  imaginary  (the  one  on  the  left  bank  having 
no  connection  with  the  story),  but  the  location 
is  exactly  described.  This  is  just  above  Pelter 
Bridge,  a  mile  north  of  Ambleside,  where  the 
river  Rothay  combines  with  the  adjacent  hills 
to  make  one  of  those  fascinating  scenes  for 
which  Westmoreland  is  famous.  Nab  Scar  looms 
up  before  us,  and  off  to  the  left  is  Loughrigg. 
A  stroll  along  the  river  brings  one  to  the  little 
bridge  at  the  outlet  of  Rydal  Water,  where 
David  walked  for  quiet  meditation  during  his 
wife's  illness;  and  still  farther  northward  the 
larch  plantations  on  the  side  of  Silver  How  add 
their  touch  of  beauty  to  the  landscape.  This  en- 
tire region  has  always  been  dear  to  Mrs.  Ward's 
heart  from  the  associations  of  her  girlhood,  and, 
if  Lucy  must  die,  she  could  think  of  no  more 
lovely  spot  for  the  last  sad  scenes. 

131 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

One  character  in  "  David  Grieve "  is  drawn 
from  real  life  —  Elise  Delaunay,  the  French  girl 
with  whom  David  falls  in  love  on  his  first  visit 
to  Paris.  This  is,  in  some  respects,  a  portrait  of 
Marie  Bashkirtseff,  a  young  native  of  Russia, 
whose  brief  career  as  an  artist  attracted  much 
notice.  Marie  was  born  of  wealthy  parents  in 
1860.  When  she  was  only  ten  years  old  her 
mother  quarreled  with  her  husband  and  left  him, 
taking  the  children  with  her.  Marie  returned  to 
her  father,  with  whom  she  traveled  extensively. 
A  born  artist,  the  journey  through  Italy  created 
in  her  a  new  and  thrilling  interest.  She  resolved 
to  devote  her  life  to  art,  and  in  1877  entered 
the  school  of  Julian  in  Paris.  She  soon  showed 
astonishing  capacity,  and  Julian  assured  her  that 
her  draughtsmanship  was  remarkable.  One  of 
her  paintings,  "  Le  Meeting,"  was  exhibited  in 
the  Salon  of  1884,  and  attracted  much  notice. 
Reproductions  were  made  in  all  the  leading  pa- 
pers, and  it  was  finally  bought  by  the  cousin  of 
the  Czar,  the  Grand  Duke  Constantine  Constanti- 
no witch,  a  distinguished  connoisseur  and  himself 
a  painter.  This  picture  represents  half  a  dozen 
street  gamins  of  the  ordinary  Parisian  type  hold- 
ing a  conference  in  the  street.  Their  faces  ex- 
hibit all  the  seriousness  of  a  group  of  financiers 
consulting  upon  some  project  of  vast  importance. 

The  peculiarity  of  Marie's  character  is  set 
forth  by  her  biographer  in  words  which  enable 

132 


THE  COUNTRY  OP  MRS.   WARD 

the  reader  of  "David  Grieve"  instantly  to  recog- 
nize Elise  Delaunay :  — 

She  never  wholly  yields  herself  up  to  any  fixed 
rule  of  conduct,  or  even  passion,  being  swayed  this 
way  or  that  by  the  intense  impressionability  of  her 
nature.  She  herself  recognized  this  anomaly  in  the 
remark,  "  My  life  can't  endure ;  I  have  a  deal  too 
much  of  some  things  and  a  deal  too  little  of  others, 
and  a  character  not  made  to  last."  The  very  intens- 
ity of  her  desire  to  see  life  at  all  points  seems  to  de- 
feat itself,  and  she  cannot  help  stealing  side  glances 
at  ambition  during  the  most  romantic  te"te-a-tete  with 
a  lover,  or  being  tortured  by  visions  of  unsatisfied 
love  when  art  should  have  engrossed  all  her  faculties. 

In  the  last  year  of  her  life  Marie  achieved  an 
admiration  for  Bastien-Lepage  which,  her  bi- 
ographer says,  "  has  a  suspicious  flavour  of  love 
about  it.  It  is  the  strongest,  sweetest,  most  im- 
passioned feeling  of  her  existence."  She  died  in 
1884,  at  the  early  age  of  twenty-four,  assured 
by  Bastien-Lepage  that  no  other  woman  had  ever 
accomplished  so  much  at  her  age. 

"Marcella"  and  "  Sir  George  Tressady  "  are 
novels  of  English  social  and  political  life  —  a 
field  in  which  Mrs.  Ward  is  peculiarly  at  home, 
and  in  which  she  has  no  superior.  Marcella,  who 
in  her  final  development  became  one  of  the  most 
beautiful  women  of  all  Mrs.  Ward's  characters, 
was  suggested  by  the  personality  of  an  intimate 

133 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

friend,  whose  name  need  not  be  mentioned.  Mel- 
lor  Park,  the  home  of  Marcella,  is  drawn  from 
Hampden  House  in  Buckinghamshire.  It  is  a 
famous  old  house,  some  centuries  old,  now  the 
country-seat  of  the  Earl  of  Buckinghamshire, 
and,  with  its  well-kept  gardens  and  spacious 
park,  is  unusually  attractive.  Twenty  years  ago, 
however,  it  was  in  a  state  of  neglect.  The  road 
leading  to  it  was  full  of  underbrush,  the  garden 
was  wholly  uncared-for,  and  the  house  itself 
much  in  need  of  repair.  This  is  the  state  in 
which  Mrs.  Ward  describes  it  —  and  she  knew 
it  well,  for  she  had  leased  it  for  a  season  and 
made  it  her  summer  home.  The  murder  of  the 
gamekeeper,  described  as  taking  place  near  Mel- 
lor  Park,  really  happened  at  Stocks,  Mrs.  Ward's 
present  home  near  Tring. 

The  village  of  Ferth,  where  Sir  George  Tres- 
sady  had  his  home  and  owned  the  collieries,  is  a 
mining  village  ten  miles  from  Crewe,  known  as 
"Talk  o'  the  Hill."  The  ugly  black  house  to 
which  Tressady  brought  home  his  young  wife 
was  described  from  an  actual  house  which  the 
author  visited. 

"  Helbeck  of  Bannisdale  "  was  written  while 
the  author  was  living  at  Levens  Hall,  the  hand- 
some country  home  of  Captain  Bagot,  M.P., 
which  Mrs.  Ward  leased  for  a  summer.  It  is  a 
few  miles  south  of  Kendal,  in  Westmoreland, 
and  just  on  the  border  of  the  "Peat  Moss" 

134 


THE  COUNTRY  OF  MRS.  WARD 

country.  The  old  hall  dates  back  to  1170,  the 
original  deed  now  in  possession  of  Captain 
Bagot  bearing  that  date.  The  dining-room  has 
an  inlaid  design  over  the  mantel  with  the  date 
1586.  The  entrance-hall,  dining-room,  and  draw- 
ing-room contain  many  antique  relics.  But  the 
most  remarkable  feature  of  Levens  is  the  gar- 
den, containing  about  two  hundred  yews  trained 
a»d  trimmed  into  every  conceivable  shape.  There 
is  an  "umbrella"  which  has  required  two  hun- 
dred years  of  constant  care  to  reach  its  present 
size  and  shape;  a  British  lion,  with  perfect  cor- 
onet ;  a  peacock  with  correctly  formed  neck  and 
tail  feathers;  a  barrister's  wig,  a  kaffir's  hut, 
and  so  on  through  a  long  list  of  curious  shapes. 
In  front  of  the  house  the  river  Kent,  with  a 
bridge  of  two  arches,  makes  a  picturesque  scene. 
This  is  the  "  bridge  over  the  Bannisdale  River" 
which  marked  the  end  of  Laura's  drive  with 
Mason,  where  at  sight  of  Helbeck  the  young 
man  made  his  sudden  and  unceremonious  de- 
parture. A  spacious  park  skirts  the  river,  through 
which  runs  a  grassy  road  bounded  by  splendid 
oaks  intertwining  their  branches  high  above. 
Following  this  path  we  reached  a  foot-bridge 
barely  wide  enough  for  one  person  to  cross,  on 
the  park  end  of  which  is  a  rough  platform  ap- 
parently built  for  fishermen.  Here  Laura  kept 
her  clandestine  appointment  with  Mason,  and  on 
her  way  home  was  mistaken  for  the  ghost  of  the 

135 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

"Bannisdale  Lady,"  much  to  the  terror  of  a 
poor  old  man  who  chanced  to  be  passing,  and 
not  a  little  to  her  own  subsequent  embarrass- 
ment. A  little  beyond  is  the  deep  pool  where 
Laura  was  drowned. 

The  exterior  of  Bannisdale  Hall  is  not  Levens, 
but  Sizergh  Castle,  some  two  or  three  miles 
nearer  Kendal.  At  the  time  of  the  story  a 
Catholic  family  of  Stricklands  owned  the  place, 
but,  like  Helbeck,  were  gradually  selling  parts 
of  their  property,  and  dealers  from  London  and 
elsewhere  were  constantly  coming  to  carry  off 
furniture  or  paintings.  The  family  finally  lost 
the  property,  and  it  was  acquired  by  a  distant 
relative,  Sir  Gerald  Strickland,  who  was  recently 
appointed  Governor  of  New  South  Wales,  and 
who  now  owns  but  does  not  occupy  it. 

The  little  chapel,  high  up  on  a  hill,  where 
Laura  was  buried,  is  at  Cartmel  Fell,  in  North- 
ern Lancashire.  A  quaint  little  chapel  five  or  six 
hundred  years  old,  it  is  well  worth  a  visit. 

The  scenes  of  "Eleanor  "are  in  Italy,  and  here 
Mrs.  Ward  fairly  revels  in  descriptions  of  "Italy, 
the  beloved  and  beautiful."  The  opening  chapters 
have  their  setting  in  the  Villa  Barberini,  on  the 
ridge  of  the  Alban  Hills,  south  of  Rome,  from  the 
balcony  of  which  the  dome  of  St.  Peter's  can  be 
seen  in  the  distance,  dominating  the  landscape 
by  day  and  seeming  at  night  to  be  the  one 

136 


THE  COUNTRY  OF  MRS.  WARD 

thing  which  has  definite  form  and  identity. 
There  is  a  visit  to  Nemi  and  Egeria's  Spring, 
after  which  the  scene  changes  to  the  valley  of 
the  Paglia,  beyond  the  hill  town  of  Orvieto,  "a 
valley  with  wooded  hills  on  either  side,  of  a  blu- 
ish-green color,  checkered  with  hill  towns  and  slim 
campaniles  and  winding  roads ;  and,  binding  it 
all  in  one,  the  loops  and  reaches  of  a  full  brown 


river." 


Torre  Amiata — the  real  name  of  which  is 
Torre  Alfina  —  is  a  magnificent  castle,  "  a  place 
of  remote  and  enchanting  beauty."  Through 
some  Italian  friends,  Mrs.  Ward  met  the  agent 
of  this  great  estate,  who  put  his  house  at  her 
disposal  for  a  season.  This  happy  opportunity 
gave  her  the  intimate  acquaintance  with  the 
surrounding  country  which  she  used  with  such 
excellent  skill  in  "Eleanor,"  and  enabled  her, 
among  other  things,  to  discover  the  ruined  con- 
vent and  chapel  which  formed  the  dismal  re- 
treat of  Lucy  and  Eleanor  in  their  strange  flight 
from  Mr.  Manisty. 

"Lady  Rose's  Daughter,"  which  followed 
"  Eleanor,"  likewise  reflects  the  author's  love  of 
Italy.  It  was  written,  in  part  at  least,  in  the 
beautiful  villa  at  Cadenabbia,  on  Lake  Como, 
from  which  a  view  of  surpassing  loveliness  meets 
the  eye  in  every  direction.  Mrs.  Ward  never 
tires  of  it,  and  in  her  leisure  moments  while  there 

137 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

found  great  delight  in  reproducing  in  her  sketch- 
book the  charming  colors  of  a  landscape  which  can 
scarcely  be  equaled  in  any  other  part  of  the  world. 
The  setting  of  the  novel  in  its  earlier  chapters 
is  London.  But  when  Julie  Le  Breton,  worn  out 
by  mental  anguish,  the  result  of  experiences 
which  had  nearly  ruined  her  life,  could  be  res- 
cued and  brought  back  to  life  only  by  a  quiet 
rest  amid  pleasant  surroundings,  Lake  Como  was 
the  place  selected  by  her  kind-hearted  little 
friend  the  duchess.  As  her  strength  gradually 
returned  she  daily  walked  over  the  hill  to  the 
path  that  led  to  the  woods  overhanging  the 
Villa  Carlotta. 

Such  a  path !  To  the  left  hand,  and,  as  it  seemed, 
steeply  beneath  her  feet,  all  earth  and  heaven  —  the 
wide  lake,  the  purple  mountains,  the  glories  of  a 
flaming  sky.  On  the  calm  spaces  of  water  lay  a  shim- 
mer of  crimson  and  gold,  repeating  the  noble  splen- 
dor of  the  clouds.  ...  To  her  right  a  green  hillside 
— each  blade  of  grass,  each  flower,  each  tuft  of  heath, 
enskied,  transfigured  by  the  broad  light  that  poured 
across  it  from  the  hidden  west.  And  on  the  very  hill- 
top a  few  scattered  olives,  peaches,  and  wild  cherries 
scrawled  upon  the  blue,  their  bare,  leaning  stems,  their 
pearly  whites,  their  golden  pinks  and  feathery  gray, 
all  in  a  glory  of  sunset  that  made  of  them  things  en- 
chanted, aerial,  fantastical,  like  a  dance  of  Botticelli 
angels  on  the  height. 

The  story  opens  with  a  graphic  description  of 
Lady  Henry's  salon  —  frequented  by  the  most 

138 


THE  COUNTRY  OF  MRS.  WARD 

prominent  people  in  London  —  where  the  chief 
attraction  was  not  the  great  lady  herself,  but  her 
maid  companion,  Julie  Le  Breton.  Everywhere 
Julie  was  met  with  smiles  and  evidence  of  eager 
interest.  She  knew  every  one,  and  "her  rule 
appeared  to  be  at  once  absolute  and  welcome." 
But  one  evening  Lady  Henry  was  ill  and  gave 
orders  that  the  guests  be  turned  away  with  her 
apologies.  As  the  carriages  drove  up,  one  by 
one,  the  footman  rehearsed  Lady  Henry's  ex- 
cuses. But  a  group  of  men  soon  assembled  in 
the  inner  vestibule,  and  Julie  felt  impelled  to 
invite  them  into  the  library,  where  they  were 
implored  not  to  make  any  noise.  The  distinguished 
frequenters  of  Lady  Henry's  salon  were  all  there. 
Coffee  was  served,  and,  stimulated  by  the  blaz- 
ing fire  and  a  sense  of  excitement  due  to  the 
novelty  of  the  situation,  an  animated  conversa- 
tion sprang  up,  which  continued  till  midnight 
and  was  at  last  suddenly  interrupted  by  the  un- 
expected appearance  of  Lady  Henry  herself. 

Lady  Henry's  awakening  led  to  Julie's  dis- 
missal. But  her  friends  did  not  desert  her.  A 
little  cottage  was  found,  where  Julie  was  soon 
comfortably  installed. 

This  much  of  the  story  —  and  little  if  any 
more — was  suggested  by  the  life  of  Julie  de 
Lespinasse,  a  Frenchwoman  who  figured  bril- 
liantly in  the  Paris  society  of  the  middle  of  the 
eighteenth  century. 

139 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

In  1754  the  Marquise  du  Deffand  was  one  of 
the  famous  women  of  Paris.  Her  quick  intelli- 
gence and  a  great  reputation  for  wit  had  brought 
to  her  drawing-room  the  famous  authors,  philo- 
sophers, and  learned  men  of  the  day.  But  the 
great  lady,  now  nearly  sixty,  was  entirely  blind 
and  subject  to  a  "  chronic  weariness  that  de- 
voured her."  She  sought  a  remedy  in  the  society 
of  an  extraordinarily  attractive  young  woman, 
of  somewhat  doubtful  parentage,  named  Julie 
de  Lespinasse,  whom  she  took  into  her  home  as 
a  companion.  Julie  became  a  great  social  suc- 
cess. For  ten  years  she  remained  with  Madame 
du  Deffand,  when  a  bitter  quarrel  separated 
them.  Julie's  friends  combined  to  assure  her  an 
income  and  a  home,  and  she  was  soon  estab- 
lished almost  opposite  the  house  of  her  former 
patron.  The  Marechale  de  Luxembourg  pre- 
sented her  with  a  complete  suite  of  furniture. 
Turgot,  the  famous  Minister  of  Louis  XVI,  and 
President  Renault  were  among  those  who  pro- 
vided funds.  D'Alembert,  distinguished  as  a 
philosopher,  author,  and  geometrician,  who  was 
the  cause  of  the  quarrel  with  the  marquise,  be- 
came Julie's  most  intimate  friend.  When  she 
founded  her  own  salon,  his  official  patronage 
and  constant  presence  assured  its  success.  Her 
success  was,  in  fact,  astonishingly  rapid.  "  In  the 
space  of  a  few  months,"  says  her  biographer, 
the  Marquis  de  Segur,  "  the  modest  room  with 

140 


THE  COUNTRY  OF  MRS.  WARD 

the  crimson  blinds  was  nightly  filled,  between 
the  hours  of  six  and  ten,  by  a  crowd  of  chosen 
visitors,  courtiers  and  men  of  letters,  soldiers 
and  churchmen,  ambassadors  and  great  ladies, 
.  .  .  each  and  all  gayly  jostling  elbows  as  they 
struggled  up  the  narrow  wooden  stairs,  unre- 
gretting,  and  forgetting  in  the  ardor  of  their 
talk,  the  richest  houses  in  Paris,  their  suppers 
and  balls,  the  opera,  and  the  futile  lures  of  the 
grand  world." 

The  remarkable  career  and  unique  personality 
of  this  famous  woman  furnished  the  suggestion 
for  Julie  Le  Breton.  But  beyond  this  the  re- 
semblance is  slight.  The  subsequent  history  of 
the  Frenchwoman  has  no  relation  to  the  story 
of  "  Lady  Rose's  Daughter,"  and  the  personality 
of  the  two  women  differs  in  many  respects. 

"The  Marriage  of  William  Ashe"  is  like 
"Lady  Rose's  Daughter"  in  two  important  re- 
spects :  it  is  a  story  in  which  the  author  reveals 
an  extraordinary  knowledge  of  English  politics 
and  familiarity  with  the  social  life  of  the  upper 
classes,  and  it  is  one  in  which  a  story  of  real 
life  plays  an  important  part.  Indeed,  there  is  far 
more  of  real  life  in  this  novel  than  in  any  other 
the  author  has  written.  William  Ashe  and  his 
frivolous  and  erratic  wife  Kitty  are  portraits,  con- 
siderably modified,  it  is  true,  but  nevertheless 
real,  of  William  and  Caroline  Lamb.  William 

141 


THE  LURE  OP  THE  CAMERA 

Lamb — known  to  posterity  as  Lord  Melbourne 
—  did  not  become  a  distinguished  statesman 
until  after  he  had  entered  the  House  of  Lords. 
For  twenty-five  years  he  had  been  a  member  of 
the  House  of  Commons,  of  little  influence  and 
almost  unknown  to  the  country  at  large.  But 
soon  after  the  death  of  George  IV  he  entered 
the  cabinet  of  Earl  Grey  as  Home  Secretary. 
This  was  in  1830.  Less  than  four  years  later  he 
rose  suddenly  to  the  highest  position  in  the 
state.  As  Premier  it  was  his  unique  privilege  to 
instruct  the  young  Queen,  Victoria,  in  the  du- 
ties of  her  high  office  —  a  task  which  he  exe- 
cuted with  commendable  tact  and  skill.  It  is  the 
inconsequential  William  Lamb  of  the  House  of 
Commons,  and  not  the  exalted  Lord  Melbourne, 
whom  Mrs.  Ward  had  in  mind  in  portraying 
William  Ashe ;  and  it  was  more  particularly  his 
young  wife,  Caroline  Lamb,  who  furnished  the 
real  motive  of  the  novel. 

"Lady  Caroline,"  we  are  told  by  Lord  Mel- 
bourne's biographer,  Dr.  Dunckley,  "  became  the 
mistress  of  many  accomplishments.  She  acquired 
French  and  Latin,  and  had  the  further  courage, 
Mr.  Torrens  tells  us,  to  undertake  the  recital  of 
an  ode  of  Sappho.  She  could  draw  and  paint,  and 
had  the  instinct  of  caricature.  Her  mind  was 
brimming  with  romance,  and,  regardless  of  con- 
ventionality, she  followed  her  own  tastes  in  every- 
thing. In  conversation  she  was  both  vivacious 

142 


THE  COUNTRY  OF  MRS.  WARD 

and  witty."  Such  was  Lady  Caroline  Ponsonby 
when  she  married  William  Lamb.  The  marriage 
proved  an  extremely  unhappy  one.  Lady  Caro- 
line's whole  life  was  a  series  of  flirtations  —  de- 
liberately planned,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  and  yet 
entered  upon  with  such  mad  rushes  of  passion  as 
to  seem  merely  the  result  of  some  irresistible 
impulse.  A  son  was  born  to  the  couple,  but  he 
brought  no  joy,  for  as  he  grew  up  he  developed 
an  infirmity  of  intellect  amounting  almost  to  im- 
becility. The  life  of  the  young  people  was  "  an 
incessant  round  of  frivolous  dissipation."  The 
after-supper  revels  often  lasted  till  daybreak.  But 
this  brought  no  happiness,  and  both  husband  and 
wife  came  to  realize  that  marriage  had  been,  for 
them,  a  troublesome  affair.  About  this  time  Lord 
Byron  appeared  on  the  scene.  "  Childe  Harold" 
had  brought  him  sudden  fame.  He  had  traveled 
in  the  East,  was  the  hero  of  many  escapades,  had 
been  sufficiently  wicked  to  win  the  admiration  of 
certain  ladies  of  romantic  tendencies,  and  alto- 
gether created  quite  a,  furor  through  the  peculiar 
charms  of  his  handsome  face  and  dashing  ways. 
He  sought  and  obtained  an  introduction  to  Lady 
Caroline.  He  came  to  call  the  next  day  when  she 
was  alone,  and  for  the  next  nine  months  almost 
lived  at  Melbourne  House.  They  called  each  other 
by  endearing  names,  and  exchanged  passionate 
verses.  They  were  constantly  together,  and  the 
intimacy  caused  much  scandalous  comment.  It 

143 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

lasted  until  Byron  became  tired  of  it  all,  and  an- 
nounced his  intention  of  marrying.  The  marriage 
to  a  cousin  of  Lady  Caroline  aroused  the  fierce 
jealousy  of  the  latter,  who  proceeded  to  perform 
a  little  melodrama  of  her  own,  first  trying  to 
jump  out  of  a  window  and  then  stabbing  her- 
self—  not  so  deep  that  it  would  hurt — with  a 
knife. 

Such  escapades  could  have  but  one  result. 
There  came  a  separation,  of  course ;  but  some 
traces  of  the  early  love  remained  in  both,  and 
when  Lady  Caroline  was  dying,  William  Lamb 
was  summoned  from  Ireland.  The  final  parting 
was  not  without  tender  affection  on  both  sides, 
and  William  felt  his  loss  deeply. 

In  this  brief  sketch  the  reader  of  Mrs.  Ward's 
novel  will  recognize  Kitty  Ashe  in  every  line. 
The  portraiture  is  very  close.  Cliffe  takes  the 
place  of  Lord  Byron  without  being  made  to  re- 
semble him.  But  he  serves  to  reveal  the  weakness 
of  Kitty's  character.  Even  Kitty's  mischievous 
work  in  writing  a  book,  which  came  near  ruining 
her  husband's  career,  was  an  episode  in  the  life 
of  Caroline  Lamb.  She  wrote  a  novel  in  which 
Byron  and  herself  were  the  principal  characters, 
and  their  escapades  were  paraded  before  the  world 
in  a  thin  disguise  which  deceived  nobody. 

Of  Mrs.  Ward's  later  books  there  is  little  to 
say,  so  far  as  scenes  and  "originals"  are  con- 

144 


THE  COUNTRY  OF  MRS.   WARD 

cerned.  In  "  Fenwick's  Career  "  the  little  cottage 
where  the  artist  and  his  wife  lived  was  in  real- 
ity the  summer  home  of  Mrs.  Ward's  daughter 
Dorothy.  It  stands  on  the  slope  of  a  hill  near  the 
Langdale  Pikes  in  Westmoreland,  commanding  a 
view  of  surpassing  loveliness. 

In  the  "  Testing  of  Diana  Mallory  "  the  scenery 
is  all  taken  from  the  country  near  Stocks,  the 
summer  home  of  the  novelist. 

In  "Daphne,"  or  "Marriage  a  la  Mode," 
Mount  Vernon,  Washington,  Niagara  Falls,  and 
an  imaginary  English  estate  supply  the  necessary 
scenery,  and  these  are  not  described  with  real 
interest,  for  the  author,  contrary  to  her  usual 
custom,  is  here  writing  with  a  fixed  didactic  pur- 
pose. But  a  chapter  incidentally  thrown  in  re- 
flects the  novelist's  impressions  of  a  visit  to  the 
White  House  as  the  guest  of  President  Roosevelt 
—  an  experience  which  interested  her  greatly. 
In  "the  tall,  black-haired  man  with  the  medita- 
tive eye,  the  equal,  social  or  intellectual,  of  any 
Foreign  Minister  that  Europe  might  pit  against 
him,  or  any  diplomat  that  might  be  sent  to 
handle  him,"  it  is  easy  to  recognize  Mr.  Root. 
Secretary  Garfield  is  "  this  younger  man,  sparely 
built,  with  the  sane  handsome  face  —  son  of  a 
famous  father,  modest,  amiable,  efficient."  Sec- 
retary Taft,  with  whom,  apparently,  the  dis- 
tinguished author  did  not  really  become  ac- 
quainted, is  lightly  referred  to  as  "  this  other 

145 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

of  huge  bulk  and  height,  the  hope  of  a  party, 
smiling  already  a  Presidential  smile  as  he  passed." 

It  has  been  said  of  this  book  that  it  does  an 
injustice  to  America.  But  such  was  assuredly  far 
from  the  author's  intent.  Mrs.  Ward,  who  is  one 
of  the  keenest  observers  of  English  and  Euro- 
pean public  men,  pays  a  high  compliment  in  the 
remark  that  "America  need  make  no  excuses 
whatever  for  her  best  men.  .  .  .  She  has  evolved 
the  leaders  she  wants,  and  Europe  has  nothing 
to  teach  them."  She  is  attacking  the  laxity  of 
the  divorce  laws  in  certain  American  States,  and 
in  doing  so  is  actuated  by  motives  which  every 
high-minded  American  must  applaud.  The  Eng- 
lish general  who  berates  American  institutions 
is  held  up  to  ridicule,  and  the  most  agreeable 
woman  in  the  book  —  perhaps  the  only  agreeable 
one  —  is  an  American.  Daphne,  through  whom 
the  author  condemns  the  evil,  is  not  a  typical 
American  girl,  but,  with  evident  intent  to  avoid 
offense,  is  made  the  daughter  of  a  foreigner. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  Mrs.  Ward's  feelings  to- 
ward America  are  of  the  kindliest  nature,  and, 
whatever  may  be  said  of  the  merits  of  "  Marriage 
a  la  Mode  "  as  a  work  of  fiction,  in  condemning 
an  abuse  which  nobody  can  defend  she  has  per- 
formed a  real  service. 


VI 
A  TOUK  OF  THE  ITALIAN  LAKES 


VI 

A  TOUR  OF  THE  ITALIAN  LAKES 

WE  caught  our  first  glimpse  of  Maggiore 
from  a  window  in  Stresa,  late  in  the  after- 
noon of  a  charming  day  in  early  spring.  In  spite 
of  the  lateness  of  the  hour,  with  all  the  enthusi- 
asm of  amateurs,  we  proceeded  to  make  a  photo- 
graph of  the  charming  scene.  Ruskin  was  right 
when  he  declared  Maggiore  to  be  the  most  beau- 
tiful of  all  the  Italian  lakes ;  —  at  least,  we  felt 
willing  to  admit  this,  even  though  we  had  not 
yet  seen  the  others.  In  the  foreground  were  the 
green  lawns  and  white  paths  of  a  well-kept  park, 
skirting  the  lake ;  then  a  wide  stretch  of  water, 
roughened  by  the  wind  so  that  its  surface,  usu- 
ally smooth,  was  now  dotted  with  whitecaps, 
dancing  and  sparkling  in  the  afternoon  sun; 
across  the  water  to  the  left,  the  village  of  Pal- 
lanza,  pushing  itself  far  out  into  the  lake,  and 
thrown  into  strong  relief  by  the  high  mountains 
at  its  back ;  far  away  in  the  distance,  the  white- 
capped  summit  of  some  Alpine  range ;  and  above 
it  all,  the  most  beautiful  of  blue  Italian  skies. 
We  gazed  long  upon  the  scene,  until  the  twi- 
light began  to  deepen.  Soon  two  figures  ap- 
peared at  the  entrance  to  the  park,  one  a  woman 

149 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

in  a  green  velvet  gown,  the  other  a  man  in  a 
long  flowing  mantle  of  the  style  peculiar  to 
Italy.  They  seemed  in  earnest  conversation,  now 
approaching  each  other  with  vigorous  but  grace- 
ful gestures,  now  falling  back  a  step  or  two  and 
again  advancing.  The  man  would  throw  his 
cloak  over  his  left  shoulder;  then,  when  his 
earnestness  caused  it  to  slip  away,  he  would 
throw  it  back  again,  repeating  the  movement 
over  and  over.  We  could  almost  fancy  over- 
hearing Lorenzo  say :  — 

"  In  such  a  night 

Did  Jessica  steal  from  the  wealthy  Jew, 
And  with  an  unthrift  love  did  run  from  Venice 
As  far  as  Belmont " ; 

and  hearing  Jessica  reply :  — 

"  And  in  such  a  night 

Did  young  Lorenzo  swear  he  loved  her  well, 
Stealing  her  soul  with  many  vows  of  faith, 
And  ne'er  a  true  one." 

The  little  pantomime  seemed  all  that  was  needed 
to  complete  the  romance  of  the  scene,  while  the 
gathering  twilight  lent  its  aid. 

The  Lago  di  Maggiore,  known  to  the  Ro- 
mans as  Lacus  Verbanus,  is  the  westernmost  as 
well  as  the  largest  of  three  lovely  lakes  which 
lie  on  the  southern  slope  of  the  Alps,  in  an  area 
not  greater  than  that  of  the  State  of  Rhode 
Island.  The  Lago  di  Como,  or  Lacus  Larius,  is 
the  easternmost  of  the  group,  while  the  Lago  di 

150 


A  TOUR  OF  THE  ITALIAN  LAKES 

Lugano,  smaller,  but  not  less  beautiful,  lies  be- 
tween the  other  two. 

There  is  a  peculiar  delicacy  of  beauty  about 
these  lakes  like  an  exquisitely  tinted  rosebud 
or  the  perfume  of  apple  blossoms.  The  rugged- 
ness  of  aspect  common  to  most  mountain  lakes  is 
here  lost  in  the  soft  luxuriance  of  the  green 
shores,  the  sparkling  waters,  and  the  rich  blue 
sky.  The  hills  are  lined  with  terraces  of  green 
vineyards,  interspersed  with  the  pink  of  peach 
and  almond  blossoms.  Camellias  and  azaleas 
brighten  the  gardens.  Mulberry  trees,  olives,  and 
cypresses,  mingling  with  their  sturdy  Northern 
companions,  the  spruces  and  pines,  cast  their 
varied  foliage  against  the  brown  of  the  near-by 
mountains.  In  the  distance  the  snow-clad  peaks 
of  the  Alps  interpose  their  white  mantles  be- 
tween the  blue  of  the  sky  and  the  warmer  tones 
of  the  hillsides,  while  here  and  there  picturesque 
villages  stand  out  on  projecting  promontories  to 
lend  an  additional  gleam  of  whiteness  to  the  land- 
scape. 

Mingling  with  the  charm  of  all  this  natural 
beauty  and  intensifying  it  are  the  atmosphere  of 
poetry  and  romance  which  one  instinctively  feels, 
and  the  more  tangible  associations  with  history, 
literature,  science,  art,  and  architecture  which 
are  constantly  suggested  as  one  makes  the  tour 
of  the  lakes. 

In  the  morning  we  found  our  places  on  the 
151 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

upper  deck  of  the  little  steamer  that  makes  a 
zigzag  journey  through  Maggiore.  No  sooner 
had  the  boat  started  than  we  heard  sweet  strains 
of  music  and  a  chorus  of  well-modulated  male 
voices.  The  night  before  we  had  had  a  minia- 
ture play  for  our  special  benefit.  Can  it  be  pos- 
sible that  now  we  are  to  have  Italian  opera? 
They  were  only  a  party  of  native  excursionists, 
but  we  were  genuinely  sorry  when  they  disem- 
barked at  the  next  landing. 

Leaving  Stresa,  famous  as  the  home  of  Ca- 
vour,  when  that  great  statesman  was  planning 
the  creation  of  a  united  Italy,  we  soon  came  in 
sight  of  Isola  Bella.  As  it  lay  there  in  the  bright 
sunlight,  its  green  terraces  and  tropical  foliage, 
its  white  towers  and  arcaded  walls  reflected  in 
the  blue  waters  of  the  lake,  the  snowy  mountains 
forming  a  distant  background  and  a  cloudless 
blue  sky  surmounting  the  whole,  we  thought  it 
beautiful.  But  in  this,  it  seems,  our  taste  was  at 
fault,  and  while  admiring  we  ought  to  have 
been  criticizing.  It  was  like  spending  an  even- 
ing with  genuine  enjoyment  at  the  theater,  only 
to  find  out  the  next  morning  from  the  critic  of 
the  daily  newspaper  that  the  play  was  poor,  the 
acting  only  ordinary,  and  the  applause  merely 
an  act  of  generosity.  Southey  wrote  of  it,  "  Isola 
Bella  is  at  once  the  most  costly  and  the  most 
absurd  effort  of  bad  taste  that  has  ever  been 
produced  by  wealth  and  extravagance."  A  more 

152 


A  TOUR  OP  THE  ITALIAN  LAKES 

recent  English  writer  condemns  its  "monstrous 
artificialities."  He  declares  that  "the  gardens 
are  a  triumph  of  bad  taste,"  and  that  "  artificial 
grottoes,  bristling  with  shells,  terrible  pieces  of 
hewn  stone,  which  it  would  be  an  offense  to 
sculpture  to  term  statuary,  offend  the  eye  at 
every  turn."  Another  says  that  it  is  "like  a 
Perigord  pie,  stuck  all  over  with  the  heads  of 
woodcocks  and  partridges,"  while  some  one  else 
thinks  it  "  worthy  the  taste  of  a  confectioner." 

On  the  other  hand,  our  own  distinguished 
novelist,  Mrs.  Edith  Wharton,  found  much  to 
be  admired :  — 

The  palace  has  .  .  .  one  feature  of  peculiar  interest 
to  the  student  of  villa  architecture,  namely,  the  beau- 
tiful series  of  rooms  in  the  south  basement,  opening 
on  the  gardens,  and  decorated  with  the  most  exquisite 
ornamentation  of  pebble-work  and  sea-shells,  mingled 
with  delicate-tinted  stucco.  These  low-vaulted  rooms, 
with  marble  floors,  grotto-like  walls,  and  fountains 
dripping  into  fluted  conches,  are  like  a  poet's  notion 
of  some  twilight  refuge  from  summer  heats,  where 
the  languid  green  air  has  the  coolness  of  water :  even 
the  fantastic  consoles,  tables,  and  benches,  in  which 
cool  glimmering  mosaics  are  combined  with  carved 
wood  and  stucco  painted  in  faint  greens  and  rose- 
tints,  might  have  been  made  of  mother-of-pearl,  coral, 
and  seaweed  for  the  adornment  of  some  submarine 
palace. 

It  was  the  fashion  to  admire  the  island  before 
it  became  the  rule  to  condemn  its  artificiality. 

153 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

Bishop  Burnet  visited  Maggiore  in  1685,  four- 
teen years  after  the  Count  Vitaliano  Borromeo 
had  transformed  the  island  from  a  barren  slate 
rock  into  a  costly  summer  residence.  He  thought 
it  "  one  of  the  loveliest  spots  of  ground  in  the 
world,"  and  wrote,  "  there  is  nothing  in  all  Italy 
that  can  be  compared  with  it."  At  a  much  later 
time,  Lord  Lytton  allowed  himself  to  rise  to  the 
heights  of  enthusiasm :  — 

^  O  fairy  island  of  a  fairy  sea, 

Wherein  Calypso  might  have  spelled  the  Greek, 
Or  Flora  piled  her  fragrant  treasury, 

Culled  from  each  shore   her  zephyr's   wings 

could  seek,  — 
From  rocks  where  aloes  blow. 

"  Tier  upon  tier,  Hesperian  fruits  arise  : 

The  hanging  bowers  of  this  soft  Babylon ; 
An  India  mellows  in  the  Lombard  skies, 

And  changelings,  stolen  from  the  Lybian  sun, 
Smile  to  yon  Alps  of  snow." 

The  charge  of  artificiality  must  be  admitted. 
A  bare  rock  cannot  be  transformed  into  a  thing 
of  beauty  and  escape  the  charge.  The  ten  ter- 
races are  a  series  of  walls,  built  in  the  form  of 
a  pyramid  and  covered  with  earth,  transported 
from  the  mainland  at  great  expense.  Orange 
and  lemon  trees,  amid  a  profusion  of  tropical 
foliage,  are  thus  made  to  wave  their  fragrant 
branches  in  the  face  of  Alpine  snows.  Is  not 
this  worth  while  ?  The  truth  is  that  Lake  Mag- 

154 


A  TOUR  OF  THE  ITALIAN  LAKES 

giore  is  so  rich  in  the  kind  of  beauty  which  the 
hand  of  Nature  has  provided  that  the  creations 
of  man  —  the  villas,  the  gardens,  the  vineyards, 
the  villages  nestling  close  to  the  water's  edge, 
and  the  pilgrimage  churches  high  up  on  the 
mountain-sides  —  seem  only  to  accentuate  the 
charm. 

The  Isola  dei  Pescatori,  or  Island  of  the  Fish- 
ermen, lying  near  the  "  Beautiful  Island,"  forms 
a  striking  contrast.  If  distance  is  needed  to  lend 
enchantment  and  conceal  the  lavish  expenditure 
of  wealth  on  the  Isola  Bella,  it  is  needed  still  more 
to  hide  the  squalor  and  avoid  the  odor  of  the 
poor  fishermen's  island.  Yet  the  latter,  seen  from 
the  steamer's  deck,  is  far  more  picturesque  than 
its  more  pretentious  neighbor.  The  third  of  the 
Borromean  group  is  known  as  the  Isola  Madre. 
It  has  seven  terraces,  surmounted  by  an  unused 
villa.  Its  gardens  are  full  of  roses,  camellias,  and 
all  kinds  of  beautiful  plants,  lemons,  oranges, 
myrtle,  magnolia,  and  semi-tropical  trees  in  great 
profusion.  Less  popular  than  Isola  Bella,  it  is 
considered  by  many  far  more  attractive. 

Two  villages  lying  farther  south  on  the  west- 
ern shore  of  the  lake  are  worthy  of  at  least  pass- 
ing mention  :  — Belgirate  and  Arona.  The  former 
was  the  home,  in  the  late  years  of  his  life,  of 
the  great  master  of  Italian  prose,  Manzoni,  whose 
novel,  "I  Promessi  Sposi,"  was  thought  by  Scott 
to  be  the  finest  ever  written.  He  was  a  man  of 

155 


THE  LURE^OF  THE  CAMERA 

the  people,  greatly  beloved  by  his  countrymen 
for  his  benevolence,  tender  sympathy,  and  warmth 
of  affection.  Arona  was  the  home  of  the  patron 
saint  of  the  Italian  lakes,  Carlo  Borromeo.  A 
colossal  statue,  sixty-six  feet  high  on  a  pedestal 
of  forty  feet,  built  to  his  memory  in  1697,  is 
one  of  the  sights  of  the  region.  St.  Charles  was 
born  in  1537.  At  the  age  of  twenty-three  he 
was  made  a  cardinal  by  his  uncle,  Pope  Pius  IV. 
Inheriting  great  wealth,  he  devoted  his  revenues 
to  charity,  sometimes  living  on  bread  and  water 
and  sleeping  on  straw.  Traveling  as  a  missionary, 
he  visited  the  remotest  villages  and  almost  inac- 
cessible shepherds'  huts  high  up  on  the  moun- 
tains. He  is  best  remembered  for  his  self-sacrifice 
and  heroic  devotion  to  the  people  in  the  great 
plague  at  Milan  in  1575.  But  the  great  saint 
was  a  hater  of  heretics  and  caused  many  of  them 
to  be  put  to  death.  Nor  was  he  without  enemies 
among  those  of  his  own  faith.  A  Franciscan 
monk  once  fired  upon  him,  but  he  escaped  as  if 
by  miracle,  the  bullet  glancing  from  the  heavy 
gold  embroidery  of  his  cope  —  a  demonstration 
that  gold  lace  is  not  always  a  wholly  superfluous 
decoration. 

Our  little  steamer  zigzagged  back  and  forth, 
stopping  at  many  villages,  until  finally  Luino  was 
reached.  This  busy  little  town  was  the  birth- 
place of  Bernardino  Luini,  the  illustrious  dis- 
ciple of  Leonardo  da  Vinci,  whose  frescoes 

156 


A  TOUR  OF  THE  ITALIAN  LAKES 

adorn  many  of  the  Italian  churches.  It  was  also 
the  scene  of  one  of  Garibaldi's  brave  exploits, 
though  an  unsuccessful  one.  Here  we  left  the 
steamer  for  a  short  ride  by  tramway  to  Ponte 
Tresa,  on  Lake  Lugano,  where  another  little 
boat  was  waiting.  Although  usually  regarded  as 
one  of  the  Italian  lakes,  the  greater  portion 
of  Lugano  is  in  Swiss  territory.  Most  tourists 
make  it  the  gateway  from  the  north  into  Italy, 
passing  through  its  most  populous  town,  Lu- 
gano, which,  with  its  neighbor,  Paradiso,  lines 
the  shores  of  a  beautiful  blue  bay,  guarded  on 
either  side  by  high  mountains,  clothed  with 
groves  of  oak  and  chestnut  set  off  by  vineyards 
and  gardens  on  the  lower  slopes.  To  the  front 
Monte  Caprino  rises  straight  up  from  the  water 
like  one  huge,  solitary  rock,  keeping  stern  watch 
over  the  soft  luxuriance  of  the  towns.  San  Sal- 
vatore  is  the  sentinel  on  the  right,  while  Monte 
Bri  and  Monte  Boglia  are  on  duty  at  the  left. 
Lugano  was  the  home  of  the  Italian  patriot, 
Mazzini,  who  has  been  called  the  prophet  of 
Italian  unity,  as  Garibaldi  was  its  knight-errant 
and  Cavour  its  statesman. 

On  the  eastern  side  of  the  lake  and  farther  to 
the  south  is  Monte  Generoso.  We  saw  it  only 
from  the  steamer,  but  it  ought  to  be  seen  at  close 
range,  for  it  is  covered  with  woods  and  pastures 
and  commands  a  view  of  the  chain  of  lakes  that 
is  said  to  be  unsurpassed  in  all  Italy.  We  main- 

157 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

tained  our  zigzag  journey,  however,  until  Por- 
lezza  was  reached,  where  another  little  train  stood 
ready  to  carry  us  over  to  Lake  Como. 

For  kaleidoscopic  revelations  of  Nature's 
choicest  scenes  and  rarest  beauties,  the  descent 
from  the  highlands  to  the  town  of  Menaggio  could 
scarcely  be  equaled.  The  train  moved  slowly 
through  the  vineyards  and  gardens,  gradually 
descending,  until  with  a  sudden  turn  the  whole 
northern  end  of  Como  burst  gloriously  into  view. 
Never  was  sky  a  lovelier  blue  and  never  did  water 
more  splendidly  reflect  its  azure  hue.  Far  away 
the  snowy  Alps  gave  a  touch  of  the  sublime  to 
a  view  of  surpassing  grandeur.  In  a  moment  the 
scene  changed,  and  Bellagio  with  its  white  villas 
stood  before  us,  separating  the  two  arms  of  the 
lake.  Then  Varenna  with  its  solitary  tower,  and 
finally,  at  the  edge  of  the  water,  the  village  of 
Menaggio  itself. 

"  How  blest,  delicious  scene !  the  eye  that  greets 
Thy  open  beauties  or  thy  lone  retreats,  — 
Beholds  the  unwearied  sweep  of  wood  that  scales 
Thy  cliffs :  the  endless  waters  of  thy  vales : 
Thy  lowly  cots  that  sprinkle  all  the  shore, 
Each  with  its  household  boat  beside  the  door." 

So  sang  Wordsworth  in  the  days  of  his  youth. 

Slowly  winding  our  way  down  the  precipitous 
slopes,  we  reached  at  last  the  end  of  the  railway, 
and  a  third  steamer  closed  the  experiences  of  the 
day  by  carrying  us  safely  to  Cadenabbia.  "  That 

158 


A  TOUR  OF  THE  ITALIAN  LAKES 

was  Italy  !  and  as  lovely  as  Italy  can  be  when  she 
tries."  So  the  poet  Longfellow  wrote  to  James 
T.  Fields  in  1868.  And  every  one  who  has  been 
there  can  appreciate  the  poet's  feeling  when  he 
wrote :  — 

"  I  ask  myself,  Is  this  a  dream  ? 

Will  it  all  vanish  into  air  ? 
Is  there  a  land  of  such  supreme 

And  perfect  beauty  anywhere  ? 
Sweet  vision  !    Do  not  fade  away ; 
Linger  until  my  heart  shall  take 
Into  itself  the  summer  day 

And  all  the  beauties  of  the  lake." 

Above  Cadenabbia  and  reached  by  a  winding 
path  through  terraces  of  vineyards,  there  is  a  bit 
of  woods,  made  brilliant  at  this  time  of  the  spring 
by  a  wealth  of  wild  cherries,  peaches,  and  alm- 
onds in  full  blossom,  and  by  the  tall,  luxuriant 
growths  of  rhododendrons,  now  covered  in  thick 
profusion  with  huge  clusters  of  splendid  pink 
and  purple  blossoms.  A  shady  spot  near  the 
edge  of  the  woods,  where  there  was  a  table  and 
some  chairs,  made  a  convenient  place  where  we 
could  rest  after  our  climb,  and  view  Longfellow's 
vision  of  "supreme  and  perfect  beauty."  The 
grand  and  majestic  beauty  of  Maggiore  and  the 
more  modest  but  sweeter  loveliness  of  Lugano 
were  but  the  preparation  for  the  glorious,  satis- 
fying perfection  of  Como,  the  most  beautiful  of 
all  the  lakes,  "a  serene  accord  of  forms  and 
colors." 

159 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

Lake  Como  is  famous,  not  alone  for  its  beauty, 
but  for  the  many  associations  of  history,  science, 
art,  and  literature.  For  centuries  its  shores  have 
been  thickly  set  with  costly  villas  —  the  homes  of 
wealth  and  luxury,  and  not  infrequently  of  learn- 
ing and  culture.  The  elder  Pliny,  whose  habits 
of  industry  were  so  great  that  he  worked  on  his 
prodigious  "  Natural  History  "  even  while  travel- 
ing at  night  in  his  carriage,  was  born  at  the  city 
of  Como,  as  was  also  his  gifted  nephew.  Volta,  the 
great  physicist  and  pioneer  in  electrical  science, 
Pope  Innocent  III,  and  Pope  Clement  XIII  were 
all  natives  of  the  same  place.  The  Cathedral  of 
Como  is  one  of  the  most  splendid  in  northern 
Italy.  The  churches  scattered  all  along  the  shores 
of  the  lake,  as  well  as  the  villas,  are  a  delight 
to  students  of  art  and  architecture.  They  are 
filled  with  paintings  of  great  interest  and  valu- 
able works  of  sculpture. 

Historically,  although  not  conspicuous  in  the 
great  events  of  the  world's  progress,  the  lake  has 
been  the  theater  of  many  stirring  scenes,  parti- 
cularly in  mediaeval  times.  Halfway  between 
Menaggio  and  the  northern  end  of  the  lake  lies 
a  rocky  promontory  known  as  Musso,  the  site  in 
the  sixteenth  century  of  a  great  and  almost  im- 
pregnable castle.  It  was  the  center  of  the  ac- 
tivities of  one  of  the  ablest,  wickedest,  and  most 
picturesque  figures  in  the  history  of  Italy.  His 
name  was  Gian  Giacomo  de  Medici,  although  he 

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A  TOUR  OF  THE  ITALIAN  LAKES 

was  not  related  to  the  famous  Florentine  family. 
He  is  best  known  by  the  name  of  "  II  Mede- 
ghino." He  is  described  as  a  man  of  medium 
stature,  broad-chested,  and  of  pallid  but  good- 
humoured  countenance,  and  possessed  of  a  keen 
and  searching  glance.  He  was  kind  to  his  family 
and  possessed  the  affection  of  his  soldiers;  he 
was  temperate  and  not  given  to  the  indulgence 
of  the  senses;  ^and  he  gave  liberally  to  charity 
and  to  the  encouragement  of  art.  But  he  was  a 
murderer,  traitor,  liar,  and  all-round  villain  of  the 
first  magnitude.  If  San  Carlo  Borromeo  was  the 
patron  saint  of  the  Italian  lakes,  his  uncle,  II 
Medeghino,  was  their  presiding  demon.  He  be- 
gan his  career  at  the  age  of  sixteen  by  killing 
another  youth  —  an  act  for  which  he  was  ban- 
ished from  Milan,  but  which  became  the  step- 
ping-stone to  a  successful  campaign  of  ambition, 
based  upon  crime  and  bloodshed. 

In  those  days  of  violence  the  capacity  to  do 
murder  was  a  recommendation,  and  II  Medeghino 
soon  rose  to  a  position  of  power.  He  helped 
Francesco  Sforza,  the  last  of  that  famous  house, 
to  regain  the  Duchy  of  Milan  by  taking  the  life 
of  a  French  courier  and  stealing  his  documents, 
for  which  services  he  demanded  the  Castle  of 
Musso.  The  price  asked  by  the  duke  was  another 
murder,  and  the  victim  this  time  was  a  personal 
friend  and  fellow  soldier.  II  Medeghino  did  not 
hesitate,  but  brutally  assassinated  his  friend.  The 

161 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

duke,  no  longer  able  to  refuse,  sent  him  to  the 
castle  with  a  letter  to  the  governor,  ordering  the 
latter  to  turn  the  fortress  over  to  the  young  ad- 
venturer, but  also  with  a  sealed  letter  requesting 
the  governor  to  cut  his  throat.  II  Medeghino 
took  no  chances  on  the  secret  letter.  He  broke 
the  seal  and  destroyed  this  message,  presenting 
the  open  letter  and  obtaining  possession  of  the 
stronghold.  Immediately  he  made  his  power  felt. 
He  strengthened  the  walls  of  the  fort  and  made 
the  cliffs  inaccessible.  He  made  himself  feared 
and  his  authority  respected.  He  began  a  career 
of  piracy  and  plunder,  continuing  until  he  be- 
came the  master,  not  only  of  Lake  Como,  but  of 
Lugano  and  much  of  the  adjacent  territory.  His 
fleet  of  seven  large  ships  and  many  smaller  ones 
swept  the  lake  from  end  to  end. 

Although  but  thirty  years  of  age,  he  was  now 
a  power  to  be  reckoned  with.  The  Spaniards, 
finding  him  dangerous  and  not  to  be  conquered 
by  force,  finally  succeeded  in  winning  him  by 
concessions.  Charles  V  created  him  Marquis  of 
Musso  and  Count  of  Lecco,  and  induced  him  to 
begin  a  vigorous  warfare  against  his  former 
master,  the  Duke  of  Milan.  But  the  end  was 
near.  A  great  force  of  Swiss  attacked  from  the 
north  and  the  Duke  of  Milan  sent  a  large  fleet 
and  great  army  to  subdue  the  rebel.  A  battle  off 
Menaggio  was  lost  by  the  pirate.  He  made  a 
desperate  fight,  but  was  compelled  to  yield  to 

162 


A  TOUR  OF  THE  ITALIAN  LAKES 

superior  forces.  But  he  nevertheless  retired  with 
honors.  He  was  given  an  enormous  sum  of  money 
and  the  title  of  Marquis  of  Marignano,  together 
with  free  pardon  for  himself  and  all  his  follow- 
ers. The  rest  of  his  days  were  spent  in  the  service 
of  Spain.  When  he  died,  in  his  sixtieth  year,  his 
brother,  Pope  Pius  IV,  erected  a  magnificent 
tomb  to  his  memory  in  the  Cathedral  of  Milan, 
where  all  who  feel  so  disposed  may  pause  to  honor 
this  prince  of  pirates  and  most  unscrupulous  of 
plunderers,  conspicuous  for  his  wickedness,  even 
in  an  age  ruled  by  violence. 

It  is  a  relief  to  turn  from  the  history  of  one 
of  the  wickedest  of  men  to  that  of  one  of  the 
noblest  of  women,  by  merely  crossing  the  lake  to 
the  village  of  Varenna  —  a  town  known  to  tour- 
ists for  its  milk-white  cascade,  the  Fiume  Latte, 
a  waterfall  which  leaps  in  spring-time  from  a 
height  of  a  thousand  feet.  Here  the  remnant  of 
the  castle  of  the  good  Queen  Theodelinda  may 
still  be  seen. 

In  the  sixth  century  A.D.,  the  Langobards,  or 
Long-Beards,  taking  advantage  of  the  weakness 
and  desolation  following  the  long  wars  against 
the  Goths,  descended  into  Italy  to  take  posses- 
sion of  the  land.  A  powerful  race  of  Teutons, 
renowned  for  daring  and  love  of  war,  they  met 
with  little  resistance.  Their  king,  soon  after,  met 
a  tragic  death  at  the  hands  of  his  wife,  and  his 
successor  reigned  only  two  years.  After  ten  years 

163 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

of  experiments  with  a  national  confederacy,  com- 
posed of  some  thirty-five  dukes,  constantly  at  war 
with  each  other,  and  resulting  in  a  condition  of 
anarchy,  the  first  real  king  of  the  Lombards  was 
chosen,  Authari  the  Long-haired,  known  also  by 
his  Roman  name  of  Flavius.  The  chief  event  in 
the  life  of  this  monarch  was  his  courtship  and 
marriage.  Having  decided,  probably  for  reasons 
of  state,  upon  the  daughter  of  Garibald,  Duke  of 
Bavaria,  as  his  future  wife,  he  sent  ambassadors 
to  arrange  the  union.  But  becoming  possessed  of 
a  strange  and  unaccountable  desire  to  catch  a 
glimpse  of  the  lady  before  taking  the  final  step, 
he  is  said  to  have  accompanied  his  messengers 
in  disguise.  Fortunately  for  the  romance  of  the 
incident,  he  was  charmed  with  her  beauty  while 
the  princess  promptly  fell  in  love  with  him. 

The  Christian  Theodelinda  became  the  honored 
queen  of  the  Lombards  and  so  won  the  confidence 
of  their  leaders  that  after  the  death  of  Authari, 
shortly  after  their  marriage,  she  was  invited  to 
choose  her  own  husband,  who  would  thereupon 
become  the  king.  She  chose  Agilulf,  Duke  of 
Turin.  Through  the  influence  of  Theodelinda, 
the  Lombards  were  brought  into  the  Catholic 
Church,  and  the  queen  herself  built  at  Monza  the 
first  Lombard  cathedral.  Pope  Gregory  the  Great 
is  said  to  have  recognized  her  services  by  send- 
ing her  a  precious  relic,  one  of  the  nails  of  the 
Cross,  wrought  into  a  narrow  band  or  fillet  of 

164 


A  TOUR  OF  THE  ITALIAN  LAKES 

iron.  Sometime  later,  probably  in  the  twelfth  cen- 
tury, this  ancient  relic,  combined  with  a  broad 
band  of  gold  set  with  many  jewels,  was  converted 
into  the  celebrated  Iron  Crown  of  Lombardy,  with 
which  the  German  Emperors  in  mediaeval  times 
were  crowned  Kings  of  Italy.  It  was  used  at  the 
coronation  of  Napoleon  at  Milan  in  1805,  and  by 
the  present  King  of  Italy  upon  his  accession. 
Theodelinda's  name  was  held  in  reverence  by  her 
people,  not  only  for  her  great  public  and  private 
charities,  but  for  her  kindliness  of  heart.  The 
castle  at  Varenna  is  said  to  have  been  her  home 
during  the  last  years  of  her  life. 

If  this  story  of  the  Larian  Lake,  to  use  its 
Roman  name,  is  being  told  backwards,  it  is  be- 
cause we  first  saw  it  at  the  northern  end,  where 
the  interest  centers  in  the  events  of  the  Middle 
Ages.  But  having  jumped  from  the  sixteenth 
back  to  the  sixth  century,  it  requires  no  greater 
agility  to  skip  a  few  more  hundreds  of  years  until 
we  get  back  to  the  time  of  Julius  Caesar,  who 
as  governor  of  Cisalpine  Gaul  sent  five  thousand 
colonists  to  the  shores  of  the  lake  to  protect  the 
region  against  the  depredations  of  the  Gauls. 
Five  hundred  of  them  settled  at  the  ancient  town 
of  Comum.  The  city  never  played  an  important 
part  in  the  history  of  Rome,  but  remained  a  com- 
paratively quiet  yet  prosperous  municipality. 

In  the  Golden  Age  of  Rome,  the  shores  of 
the  Lacus  Larius  became  lined  with  costly  villas, 

165 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

where  wealthy  men  sought  a  retreat  from  the  too 
strenuous  life  of  the  Imperial  City.  The  need 
of  such  a  refuge  must  be  apparent  to  any  one 
having  even  the  most  superficial  knowledge  of 
Roman  municipal  life  in  the  first  century  of  the 
Christian  era.  To  escape  the  corruption  of  official 
life,  the  endless  feasts  of  extravagance  and  im- 
morality, and  even  the  public  amusements,  where, 
as  in  the  Flavian  amphitheater,  87,000  people 
were  wont  to  gather  to  witness  vast  spectacles 
of  cruelty,  obscenity,  and  bloodshed,  there  was 
need  enough,  and  the  moral,  self-respecting,  and 
refined  people  of  Rome  fully  realized  it.  For 
there  were  such  people,  though  the  fact  has  been 
obscured  by  history,  which  has  to  deal  chiefly 
with  the  excesses  of  the  ruling  classes. 

The  two  Plinys  and  their  friends  were  bril- 
liant examples  of  the  Romans  of  the  better  sort. 
Though  an  aristocrat,  Pliny  the  younger  was  a 
charitable,  good-natured  man,  who  loved  the  quiet 
of  a  home  where  he  could  combine  study  with 
fishing,  hunting,  and  the  companionship  of  con- 
genial friends.  He  possessed  several  villas  on  the 
shores  of  Como,  but  two  particularly  interested 
him,  one  of  which,  in  a  somewhat  whimsical  let- 
ter, he  called  "Tragedy"  and  the  other  "Com- 
edy " ;  the  high  boot  worn  by  tragedians  sug- 
gesting the  name  of  the  one  on  a  high  rock  over 
the  lake,  while  the  sock  or  slipper  of  the  comedian 
applied  to  the  villa  down  by  the  water's  edge. 

166 


A  TOUR  OF  THE  ITALIAN  LAKES 

The  latter  had  the  great  advantage  that  one  might 
fish  from  his  bedroom,  throwing  the  line  out 
of  the  window  while  he  lay  in  bed.  Pliny  does 
not  tell  how  many  fish  he  caught  under  these 
conditions. 

The  Villa  Pliniana,  just  above  Torno,  on  the 
eastern  side  of  the  lake,  was  built  in  1570  by 
Count  Giovanni  Anguisola,  whose  claim  to  dis- 
tinction lies  in  his  participation  in  the  murder  of 
Pierluigi  Farnese.  The  villa  was  erected  as  a  safe 
retreat,  where  he  might  escape  vengeance.  Its 
feature  of  greatest  interest  is  a  curious  stream 
which  flows  through  the  central  apartment  of 
the  house.  Fifteen  centuries  before  the  villa  was 
constructed,  Pliny  described  this  stream  in  one 
of  his  most  interesting  letters.  "A  certain  spring," 
he  writes,  "  rises  in  a  mountain  and  runs  down 
through  the  rocks  till  it  is  inclosed  in  a  small 
dining-parlor  made  by  hand ;  after  being  slightly 
retarded  there,  it  empties  itself  into  the  Larian 
lake.  Its  nature  is  very  remarkable.  Three  times 
a  day  it  is  increased  or  diminished  in  volume  by 
a  regular  rise  and  fall.  This  can  be  plainly  seen, 
and  when  perceived  is  a  source  of  great  enjoy- 
ment. You  recline  close  to  it  and  take  your  food 
and  even  drink  from  the  spring  itself  (for  it  is 
remarkably  cold) :  meanwhile  with  a  regular  and 
measured  movement,  it  either  subsides  or  rises. 
If  you  place  a  ring  or  any  other  object  on  the 
dry  ground  it  is  gradually  moistened  and  finally 

167 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

covered  over :  then  again  it  comes  to  view  and 
is  by  degrees  deserted  by  the  water.  If  you  watch 
long  enough  you  will  see  both  of  these  perform- 
ances repeated  a  second  and  even  a  third  time." 

Another  famous  villa  at  the  southern  end  of 
the  lake,  near  the  city  of  Como,  was  erected  by 
Cardinal  Gallio,  the  son  of  a  fisherman,  who 
achieved  high  honors  in  his  Church  and  amassed 
great  wealth.  This  villa  was  later  the  home  of 
the  discarded  Queen  Caroline,  wife  of  George  IV, 
who  gave  it  the  name  of  Villa  d'Este  and  made 
great  additions  to  its  elegance.  It  is  now  a  fash- 
ionable hotel.  Cardinal  Gallio  seems  to  have  had 
a  passion  for  extensive  villas.  His  palace  at  Grave- 
dona,  at  the  head  of  the  lake,  was  one  of  the  most 
splendid  in  Europe.  It  is  said  that  he  could  make 
the  journey  to  Rome,  requiring  six  days,  and  stop 
at  one  of  his  own  palaces  every  night. 

The  Villa  Carlotta  now  the  property  of  the 
Duke  of  Saxe-Meiningen,  is  at  Tremezzo,  a  vil- 
lage adjoining  Cadenabbia  on  the  south.  Its  chief 
beauty  lies  in  the  garden,  filled  with  a  profusion 
of  plants  of  every  variety  —  roses,  camellias, 
azaleas,  magnolias,  oranges,  lilies  —  all  arranged 
in  charming  walks,  with  here  and  there  a  vista 
of  the  lake  and  Bellagio  in  the  distance,  reflect- 
ing the  bright  sunlight  from  its  white  walls. 
Above  are  the  woods  and  the  little  round  table 
overlooking  the  water,  where  we  began  our  sur- 
vey of  the  Larian  shores.  The  interior  contains 

168 


A  TOUR  OF  THE  ITALIAN  LAKES 

a  large  collection  of  sculptures,  but  most  visi- 
tors remember  only  two  pieces,  —  Thorwaldsen's 
"  Triumphant  Entry  into  Babylon  of  Alexander 
the  Great/'  and  Canova's  lovely  "Cupid  and 
Psyche." 

After  seeing  some  of  these  palaces  merely  as 
tourists,  and  learning  the  history  of  others  of  an 
earlier  day,  particularly  the  homes  described  by 
Pliny,  we  could  not  help  wishing  to  see  an  Italian 
palace  which  is  not  a  show  place  but  a  home,  and 
typical  of  modern  life  on  the  shores  of  this  won- 
derful lake,  for  so  many  centuries  sought  by  men 
of  wealth  as  the  place  where  they  could  realize 
their  dreams  of  comfort  and  delight. 

The  opportunity  of  gratifying  this  desire  came 
sooner  than  we  expected.  We  had  started  one 
morning  to  make  a  call  at  the  summer  home  of 
Mrs.  Humphry  Ward,  who  had  leased  the  Villa 
Bonaventura  for  a  season.  Mistaking  the  direc- 
tions, we  entered  the  gate  of  the  Villa  Maria,  a 
large  house  in  the  classical  lines  of  the  Italian 
Eenaissance,  standing  high  above  the  road  and 
reached  by  winding  paths  through  a  garden  of 
surpassing  loveliness.  Our  ring  was  answered  by 
the  Italian  butler,  who  in  response  to  our  in- 
quiries nodded  pleasantly,  not  understanding  a 
word  we  said,  and  disappeared.  In  a  few  mo- 
ments we  were  most  cordially  greeted  by  an 
American  gentleman,  who  assured  us  he  was 
delighted  to  see  us,  and  would  be  happy  to 

169 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

show  us  the  villa.  In  another  moment,  and  be- 
fore we  could  make  explanations,  another  ring 
of  the  doorbell  announced  two  other  callers,  who, 
as  it  happened,  were  really  expected  at  the  hour 
of  our  arrival,  by  invitation  to  see  the  villa.  We 
had  made  a  mistake,  and  in  turn  had  been  mis- 
taken for  two  other  people,  but  our  friendly  host 
insisted  that  we,  too,  should  see  his  beautiful 
home. 

We  were  standing  in  the  atrium  before  a  large 
marble  vase  —  a  restoration  of  the  so-called  Gaeta 
vase,  by  Salpion,  a  Greek  sculptor  of  the  time  of 
Praxiteles.  The  original  was  thrown  into  the  Bay 
of  Gaeta,  where  for  centuries  it  remained  par- 
tially embedded  in  the  mud.  The  fishermen  of 
many  generations  used  it  as  a  convenient  post 
for  mooring  their  boats,  and  did  much  damage 
with  their  ropes.  It  was  finally  rescued  and  taken 
to  a  church  for  use  as  a  baptismal  font,  and  later 
transferred  to  the  Naples  Museum.  The  theme 
of  the  vase  is  the  presentation  of  the  infant 
Bacchus,  by  Mercury,  to  one  of  the  Nymphs  — 
a  favorite  subject  with  ancient  sculptors.  Mr. 
Haines,  our  courteous  host,  was  justly  proud  of 
this — the  first  complete  restoration  of  this  beau- 
tiful work  of  art.  The  decoration  of  the  atrium, 
including  the  eight  lunettes,  as  well  as  of  the 
entire  villa,  are  by  the  hand  of  Pogliaghi,  who 
now  stands  at  the  head  of  the  Lombard  decorators. 
He  is  the  young  sculptor  who  in  1895  was  com- 

170 


THE    ATRIUM    OF   THE    VILLA    MARIA 


A  TOUR  OF  THE  ITALIAN  LAKES 

missioned  to  design  the  magnificent  bronze  doors 
of  the  Cathedral  of  Milan,  a  work  requiring  seven 
years. 

One  striking  feature  of  the  villa  is  its  har- 
mony of  color.  Glance  out  the  doorway,  from  the 
atrium  across  the  lake,  or  from  the  dining-room 
toward  Menaggio,  or  through  the  library  win- 
dows into  the  garden,  and  everywhere  you  see 
the  blue  Italian  sky,  the  brown  of  the  distant 
mountains,  the  green  of  the  freshly  budding 
trees,  the  sparkle  of  the  lake,  and  the  brilliant 
tints  of  the  camellias,  hyacinths,  and  cineraria, 
combining  to  make  a  scene  of  splendor  rarely 
equaled  in  this  good  old  world  of  ours.  Then, 
glancing  back  into  the  rooms  of  the  villa,  you  find 
the  same  tints  and  shadings  in  the  walls  and  ceil- 
ings, the  paintings,  tapestries,  and  upholstery. 
Perfect  harmony  with  Nature  at  her  best  seems 
to  have  been  Pogliaghi's  motive. 

Passing  to  the  right  of  the  atrium,  we  entered 
the  music  saloon,  decorated  and  furnished  in  the 
style  of  Louis  XIV,  a  large  and  beautiful  room, 
noteworthy,  not  only  for  its  acoustic  properties, 
but  also  for  extreme  richness  and  harmony  of 
design  and  color.  An  arched  opening  reveals  a 
portion  of  a  fine  piece  of  tapestry  by  Giulio 
Komano,  dating  from  the  sixteenth  century, 
which  covers  the  rear  wall  of  the  dining-room. 
This  tapestry,  formerly  owned  by  the  Duke  of 
Modena,  is  a  representation  of  the  old  Greek 

171 


THE  LURE  OP  THE  CAMERA 

legend  of  the  presentation  of  Bacchus,  the  same 
theme  as  that  of  the  Gaeta  vase.  Indeed,  it  was 
the  possession  of  this  tapestry  which  suggested 
to  Mr.  Haines  the  idea  of  obtaining  a  restoration 
of  the  famous  vase.  A  striking  feature  of  the 
dining-room  is  the  frieze  of  Poliaghi  represent- 
ing young  Bacchantes  in  the  midst  of  fruit  and 
flowers,  so  cleverly  painted  that  it  seems  to  be 
done  in  high  relief,  completely  deceiving  the  eye. 

On  the  left  of  the  atrium  is  the  library,  with 
two  life-size  portraits  by  De  La  Gandara,  one  of 
Mr.  Haines  and  the  other  of  his  wife.  Mrs. 
Haines  was  an  accomplished  musician  as  well  as 
an  enthusiastic  collector  of  works  of  art.  The 
Villa  Maria  was  designed  by  her  as  a  fitting 
shrine  for  her  valuable  collections  as  well  as  with 
a  view  to  musical  entertainments.  Since  her  death, 
in  1899,  Mr.  Haines,  with  equal  enthusiasm  and 
taste,  has  added  to  the  collections  and  improved 
the  villa.  His  study  is  in  the  rear  of  the  library. 
Its  distinguishing  feature  is  a  life-size  portrait 
of  the  children  of  Catherine  de  Medici,  by  Fed- 
erico  Zuccheri.  This  painting  is  seven  hundred 
years  old,  but  the  colors  are  still  fresh,  and  al- 
though life-size  it  has  the  exactness  of  a  minia- 
ture. It  was  formerly  in  the  Borghese  collection. 

Ascending  the  marble  stairway  we  were  ush- 
ered into  the  "  Porcelain  "  room,  containing  the 
most  unique  and  valuable  portion  of  the  art 
treasures  of  the  villa.  There  are  four  cabinets 

172 


A  TOUR  OF  THE  ITALIAN  LAKES 

in  the  style  of  Louis  XV,  containing  what  is 
probably  the  best  collection  to  be  found  in  Eu- 
rope of  rare  Ancienne,  Porcelain  de  Saxe,  Old 
Chelsea,  Nymphenberg,  Dresden,  Meissen,  Lud- 
wigsburg,  and  Sevres  pieces  in  endless  variety 
and  bewildering  richness  of  design.  There  are 
fans  painted  by  Nicolas  Poussin,  and  others  by 
French  and  Italian  artists  of  the  seventeenth  and 
eighteenth  centuries.  There  is  a  fine  portrait  of 
the  Duchess  de  Chevreuse  by  La  Guilliere  and 
an  original  painting  of  Louis  le  Grand  by  Le 
Fevre.  A  rare  clock  of  the  period  of  Louis  XV, 
made  about  1750,  with  miniature  allegorical 
paintings,  surrounded  by  pearls,  stands  upon  a 
Louis  XI  Vdesk,  ornamented  with  elaborate  carved 
bronzes  by  Reisinger.  On  either  side  of  the  clock 
is  a  fine  old  Bohemian  vase,  while  near  by  is  a 
miniature  of  Napoleon  by  Isabey.  The  decora- 
tion of  the  room  is  completed  by  a  fine  old  piece 
of  Gobelin  tapestry,  bearing  the  signature  of 
Boucher  and  the  date  1747,  originally  presented 
by  Louis  XV  to  one  of  the  queens  of  Spain. 

These  are  a  few  of  the  treasures  shown  to  us 
in  a  very  brief  visit  to  the  Villa  Maria.  The 
enthusiasm  of  its  owner  for  art  goes  hand  in 
hand  with  a  love  of  nature.  If  the  interior  deco- 
rations have  been  done  with  the  eye  of  a  dis- 
criminating artist,  no  less  has  the  exterior  received 
the  same  careful  attention.  The  fine  fountain, 
just  within  the  gates,  the  flower-beds  with  their 

173 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

well-harmonized  tints,  the  olives  and  cypresses, 
the  camellias,  the  cherry  tree  in  full  blossom,  all 
add  their  charm  to  a  view  which  would  be  un- 
surpassed even  without  their  aid.  For  the  villa 
is  situated  at  one  of  the  loveliest  points  on  beau- 
tiful Como,  commanding  on  all  sides  a  panorama 
of  distant  mountains,  with  here  and  there  a  snow- 
capped peak,  of  peaceful  water  glistening  in  the 
warm  April  sun,  of  little  white  villages  dotting 
the  shores  of  the  lake,  of  quaint  little  chapels  in 
nooks  and  corners  of  the  mountains,  of  peach 
trees  and  almonds  adding  a  touch  of  pink  to  the 
landscape,  of  blue  skies  and  fleecy  clouds  sur- 
mounting the  whole  like  a  brilliant  canopy.  No 
wonder  that  our  genial  host,  after  showing  all 
the  beauties  of  his  palace,  stood  by  the  open 
window  and  waving  his  hand  exclaimed,  "  I  call 
this  my  J.  M.  W.  Turner."  But  the  window 
framed  a  lovelier  work  of  art  than  the  hand  of 
man  will  ever  paint. 


VII 

LITERARY   LANDMARKS   OF 
NEW  ENGLAND 


VII 

LITERARY  LANDMARKS  OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

HTIHE  quest  for  literary  landmarks  is  always  a 
X  fascinating  pursuit,  particularly  to  the  ama- 
teur photographer  who  likes  to  take  pictures  that 
mean  something.  I  have  always  found  a  certain 
exhilaration  in  seeing  for  myself  and  reproduc- 
ing photographically  the  places  made  memorable 
by  some  favorite  author.  To  look  into  the  ground 
glass  of  my  camera  and  see  the  reflected  image 
of  some  lovely  scene  that  has  been  an  inspiration 
to  poet  or  novelist,  is  like  suddenly  coming  into 
possession  of  a  prize  that  had  ever  before  been 
thought  unattainable.  It  brings  the  author  of  a 
by-gone  generation  into  one's  own  time.  It  deep- 
ens the  previous  enjoyment  —  makes  it  more 
real.  When  I  stand  before  the  house  in  which 
some  great  author  has  lived,  I  seem  to  see  more 
than  a  mere  dwelling.  The  great  man  himself 
comes  out  to  meet  me,  invites  me  in,  shows  me 
his  study,  presents  me  to  his  wife  and  children, 
walks  with  me  in  his  garden,  tells  me  how  the 
surroundings  of  his  home  have  influenced  his 
literary  work,  and  finally  sends  me  away  with  a 
peculiar  sense  of  intimacy.  I  go  home,  reach 

177 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

out  my  hand  for  a  certain  neglected  book  on  my 
shelves,  and  lo !  it  opens  as  with  a  hidden 
spring,  a  new  light  glows  upon  its  pages,  and 
I  find  myself  absorbed  in  conversation  with  a 
friend. 


178 


LANDMARKS  OF  NEW  ENGLAND 
I 

CONCORD 

FOR  this  kind  of  hunting  I  know  of  no  better 
place  in  America  than  New  England,  and  no 
better  town  in  which  to  begin  than  the  sleepy 
old  village  of  Concord,  twenty  miles  northwest 
of  Boston.  On  the  occasion  of  a  recent  visit,  we 
walked  out  Monument  Street  and  made  our  first 
stop  at  a  point  in  the  road  immediately  opposite 
the  "Old  Manse."  A  party  of  school-children 
were  just  entering.  Had  we  been  looking  at  the 
grove  on  the  hillside,  at  the  opposite  end  of  the 
town,  where  Hawthorne  used  to  walk  to  and  fro, 
composing  the  "Tanglewood  Tales,"  we  might 
have  supposed  they  had  come  to  catch  a  few 
echoes  of  the  famous  story-teller's  voice,  and  I 
should  have  made  a  photograph  with  the  chil- 
dren in  it.  But  here  they  did  not  seem  so  appro- 
priate, and  we  waited  until  they  had  gone.  When 
all  was  quiet  again,  it  did  not  require  a  very 
vigorous  imagination  to  look  down  the  vista  of 
black-ash  trees  seen  between  the  "  two  tall  gate- 
posts of  rough-hewn  stone,"  and  fancy  a  man 
and  woman  walking  arm  in  arm  down  the  ave- 
nue toward  the  weather-stained  old  parsonage,  its 
dark  sides  scarcely  visible  beneath  the  shadows 
of  the  over-arching  trees.  The  man  is  of  medium 
height,  broad-shouldered,  and  walks  with  a  vig- 

179 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

orous  stride,  suggesting  the  bodily  activity  of  a 
young  athlete.  His  hair  is  dark,  framing  with  wavy 
curves  a  forehead  both  high  and  broad.  Heavy 
eyebrows  overhang  a  pair  of  dark  blue  eyes,  that 
seem  to  flash  with  wondrous  expressiveness,  as 
he  bends  slightly  to  speak  to  the  little  woman 
at  his  side.  His  voice  is  low  and  deep,  and  she 
responds  to  what  he  is  saying  with  an  upward 
glance  of  her  soft  gray  eyes  and  a  happy  smile 
that  clearly  suggest  the  sunshine  which  she  is 
destined  to  throw  into  his  life. 

Thus  Nathaniel  Hawthorne  and  Sophia  Pea- 
body,  his  bride,  on  a  day  in  July,  1842,  passed 
into  the  gloomy  old  house  where  they  were  to 
begin  their  honeymoon.  I  say  "  begin  "  because 
it  was  not  like  the  ordinary  honeymoon  that  ends 
abruptly  on  the  day  the  husband  first  proposes 
to  go  alone  on  a  fishing  excursion.  Nor  was  it 
like  that  of  a  certain  "  colored  lady "  whom  I 
once  knew.  On  the  day  following  the  wedding 
she  left  William  to  attend  to  his  usual  duties 
in  the  stable  and  the  garden  while  she  started 
on  a  two  weeks'  "honeymoon"  trip  to  her  old 
Virginia  home,  explaining  afterward  that  she 
"  could  n't  afford  to  take  dat  fool  niggah  along, 
noway." 

The  Hawthorne  honeymoon  was  one  of  that 
rare  kind  which  begins  with  the  wedding  bells 
and  has  no  ending.  They  were  married  lovers 
all  their  days.  Hawthorne  had  seen  enough  of 

180 


LANDMARKS  OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

solitariness  in  his  bachelorhood  to  appreciate 
the  rare  companionship  of  his  gifted  wife,  and 
he  wanted  nothing  more.  The  dingy  old  par- 
sonage was  a  Paradise  to  them  and  the  new 
Adam  and  Eve  invited  no  intrusions  into  their 
Eden.  Some  of  their  friends  came  occasionally, 
it  is  true,  but  Hawthorne  records  that  during 
the  next  winter  the  snow  in  the  old  avenue  was 
marked  by  no  footsteps  save  his  own  for  weeks  at 
a  time.  And  his  loving  wife,  though  she  had  come 
from  the  midst  of  a  large  circle  of  friends,  found 
only  happiness  in  sharing  this  solitude. 

During  the  three  years  in  which  Hawthorne 
lived  in  this  "  Old  Manse/'  he  seldom  walked 
through  the  village,  was  known  to  but  few  of 
his  neighbors,  never  went  to  the  town-meeting, 
and  not  often  to  church,  though  he  lived  in  a 
house  that  had  been  built  by  a  minister  and  oc- 
cupied by  ministers  so  long  that  "  it  was  awful 
to  reflect  how  many  sermons  must  have  been 
written  there." 

Let  us  peep  through  the  windows  of  the  par- 
lor at  the  end  of  the  dark  avenue  and  indulge 
in  another  flight  of  fancy.  It  is  an  unusual  day 
at  the  Manse,  for  two  visitors  have  called  to 
greet  the  new  occupant.  The  elder  of  the  two,  a 
man  in  his  fortieth  year,  is  Ralph  Waldo  Emer- 
son, who  lives  in  the  other  end  of  the  town  in  a 
large,  comfortable,  and  cheery  house,  which  we 
expect  to  see  a  little  later.  He  knows  the  Old 

181 


THE  LURE  OP  THE  CAMERA 

Manse  well.  His  grandfather  built  it  shortly  be- 
fore the  outbreak  of  the  Revolution  and  wit- 
nessed the  battle  of  Concord  from  a  window  in 
the  second  story.  This  good  man,  who  was  the 
Revolutionary  parson  of  the  village,  died  in 
1776  at  the  early  age  of  thirty-three,  and  a  few 
years  later  his  widow  married  the  Reverend  Ezra 
Ripley,  who  maintained,  for  more  than  sixty 
years,  the  reputation  of  the  Manse  as  a  producer 
of  sermons,  being  succeeded  by  his  son,  Samuel, 
also  a  minister.  In  October,  1834,  Emerson 
came  there  with  his  mother  and  remained  a  year, 
during  which  he  wrote  his  first,  and  one  of  his 
greatest  essays,  "  Nature." 

The  other  visitor  is  Henry  D.  Thoreau,  a 
young  man  of  twenty-five,  then  living  with  the 
Emersons.  The  two  guests  and  their  host  are 
sitting  bolt  upright  in  stiff-backed  chairs.  The 
host  speaks  scarcely  a  word  except  to  ask,  for 
the  sake  of  politeness,  a  few  formal  questions, 
which  Thoreau  answers  with  equal  brevity.  Em- 
erson alone  talks  freely,  but  his  words,  however 
much  weighted  with  wisdom,  are  those  of  a 
monologuist  and  do  not  beget  conversation.  Yet 
there  is  something  in  the  manner  of  all  three 
that  seems  to  betray  the  unspoken  thought. 
Hawthorne's  observing  eyes  seem  to  be  saying, 
"So  this  is  Emerson,  the  man  who,  they  say,  is 
drawing  all  kinds  of  queer  and  oddly  dressed 
people  to  this  quiet  little  village,  —  visionaries, 
182 


LANDMARKS  OF  NEW  ENGLAND  . 

theorists,  men  and  women  who  think  they  have 
discovered  a  new  thought,  and  come  to  him 
to  see  if  it  is  genuine.  Perhaps  he  might  help 
solve  some  of  my  problems.  What  a  pure,  in- 
tellectual gleam  seems  to  be  diffused  about  him  ! 
With  what  full  and  sweet  tones  he  speaks  and 
how  persuasively !  How  serene  and  tranquil  he 
seems!  How  reposeful,  as  though  he  had  ad- 
justed himself,  with  all  reverence,  to  the  supreme 
requirements  of  life !  Yet  I  am  not  sure  I  can 
trust  his  philosophy.  Let  me  admire  him  as  a 
poet  and  a  true  man,  but  I  shall  ask  him  no 
questions." 

Then  while  Thoreau  is  talking,  Emerson  gazes 
at  Hawthorne  and  reflects:  "This  man's  face 
haunts  me.  His  manner  fascinates  me.  I  talk  to 
him  and  his  eyes  alone  answer  me ;  and  yet  this 
seems  sufficient.  He  does  not  echo  my  thoughts. 
He  has  a  mind  all  his  own.  He  says  so  little  that 
I  fear  I  talk  too  much.  Yet  he  is  a  greater  man 
than  his  words  betray.  I  have  never  found 
pleasure  in  his  writings,  yet  I  cannot  help  admir- 
ing the  man.  Some  day  I  hope  to  know  him  bet- 
ter. I  have  much  to  learn  from  him." 

Meanwhile  Hawthorne's  gaze  has  turned  upon 
the  younger  visitor.  "  What  a  wild  creature  he 
seems !  How  original !  How  unsophisticated ! 
How  ugly  he  is,  with  his  long  nose  and  queer 
mouth.  Yet  his  manners  are  courteous  and  even 
his  ugliness  seems  honest  and  agreeable.  I  under- 

183 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

stand  he  drifts  about  like  an  Indian,  has  no 
fixed  method  of  gaining  a  livelihood,  knows 
every  path  in  the  woods  and  will  sit  motionless 
beside  a  brook  until  the  fishes,  and  the  birds, 
and  even  the  snakes  will  cease  to  fear  his  pres- 
ence and  come  back  to  investigate  him.  He  is 
a  poet,  too,  as  well  as  a  scientist,  and  I  am  sure 
has  the  gift  of  seeing  Nature  as  no  other  man 
has  ever  done.  Some  day  I  must  walk  with  him 
in  the  woods." 

Every  man  in  the  room  loves  freedom,  and 
hates  conventionalities.  The  ordinary  formalities 
of  polite  society  are  unendurable.  Therefore  the 
four  walls  seem  oppressive  and  the  straight- 
back  chairs  produce  an  agonizing  tension  of  the 
nerves.  They  are  all  glad  when  the  call  is  over. 

Now  let  the  scene  change.  It  is  winter  and 
the  river  behind  the  house  is  frozen.  In  the 
glory  of  the  setting  sun,  its  surface  seems  a 
smooth  sea  of  transparent  gold.  The  edges  of 
the  stream  are  bordered  with  fantastic  draperies, 
hanging  from  the  overarching  trees  in  strange 
festoons  of  purest  white.  Once  more  our  three 
friends  appear,  but  the  four  walls  are  gone  and 
the  wintry  breeze  has  blown  away  all  constraint. 
All  three  lovers  of  the  open  air  are  now  on  skates. 
Thpreau  circles  about  skillfully  in  a  bewildering 
series  of  graceful  curves,  for  he  is  an  expert  at 
this  form  of  sport  and  thinks  nothing  of  skating 
up  the  river  for  miles  in  pursuit  of  a  fox  or  other 
184 


LANDMARKS  OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

wild  creature.  Emerson  finds  it  harder ;  he  leans 
forward  until  his  straight  back  seems  to  parallel 
the  ice  and  frequently  returns  to  the  shore  to 
rest.  Hawthorne,  if  we  may  recall  the  words  of 
his  admiring  wife,  moves  "like  a  self -impelled 
Greek  statue,  stately  and  grave,"  as  though  act- 
ing a  part  in  some  classic  drama,  yet  fond  of 
the  sport  and  apparently  indefatigable  in  its 
pursuit. 

Once  more  let  the  scene  change.  Summer  has 
come  again.  The  icy  decorations  have  given 
place  to  green  boughs  and  rushes  and  meadow- 
grass  which  seem  to  be  trying  to  crowd  the  river 
into  narrower  quarters.  A  small  boat  is  approach- 
ing the  shore  in  the  rear  of  the  old  house.  In 
the  stern  stands  a  young  man  who  guides  the 
craft  as  though  by  instinct.  With  scarcely  per- 
ceptible motions  of  the  single  paddle,  he  makes 
it  go  in  whatsoever  direction  he  wills,  as  though 
paddling  were  only  an  act  of  the  mind.  The  boat 
is  called  the  Musketaquid,  after  the  Indian  name 
of  the  river.  Its  pilot,  who  is  also  its  builder, 
quickly  reaches  the  shore,  and  we  recognize  the 
man  of  Nature,  Thoreau.  Hawthorne,  who  has 
been  admiring  both  the  boat  and  steersman,  now 
steps  aboard  and  the  two  friends  are  soon  mov- 
ing slowly  among  the  lily-pads  that  line  the 
margin  of  the  river.  Hawthorne  is  rowing.  He 
handles  the  oars  with  no  great  skill,  and  as  for 
paddling,  it  would  be  impossible  for  him  to  make 

185 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

the  boat  answer  his  will.  Thoreau  plucks  from 
the  water  a  white  pond-lily,  and  remarks  that 
"this  delicious  flower  opens  its  virgin  bosom  to 
the  first  sunlight  and  perfects  its  being  through 
the  magic  of  that  genial  kiss."  He  says  he  has 
"  beheld  beds  of  them  unfolding  in  due  succes- 
sion as  the  sunrise  stole  gradually  from  flower  to 
flower "  ;  and  this  leads  Hawthorne  to  reflect 
that  such  a  sight  is  "  not  to  be  hoped  for  unless 
when  a  poet  adjusts  his  inward  eye  to  a  proper 
focus  with  the  outward  organ."  We  fancy  that 
under  these  conditions  their  talk  "gushed  like 
the  babble  of  a  fountain/'  as  Hawthorne  said  it 
did  when  he  went  fishing  with  Ellery  Channing. 
But  we  must  not  linger  at  the  gate  of  the  Old 
Manse  indulging  these  dreams,  for  we  have  other 
pleasures  in  store.  A  hundred  yards  beyond,  we 
turn  into  the  bit  of  road,  at  right  angles  with 
the  highway,  now  preserved  because  it  was  the 
scene  of  the  famous  Concord  fight.  A  beautiful 
vista  is  made  by  the  overarching  of  trees  that 
have  grown  up  since  the  battle,  and  in  the  dis- 
tance we  see  the  Monument,  the  Bridge,  and  the 
"Minute  Man."  The  Monument  marks  the  spot 
where  the  British  soldiers  stood  and  opened  fire 
on  the  19th  of  April,  1775,  while  the  "  Minute 
Man  "  stands  at  the  place  where  the  Americans 
received  their  order  to  return  the  fire.  The 
Monument  was  dedicated  on  the  sixty-first  an- 
niversary of  the  battle,  Emerson  offering  his 
186 


LANDMARKS  OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

famous  "Concord  Hymn,"  the  opening  stanza 
of  which,  thirty-nine  years  later,  was  carved  on 
the  pedestal  of  the  Minute  Man,  erected  in  com- 
memoration of  the  centennial  of  the  event :  — 

"  By  the  rude  bridge  that  arched  the  flood, 

Their  flag  to  April's  breeze  unfurled, 
Here  once  the  embattled  farmers  stood, 

And  fired  the  shot  heard  round  the  world." 

The  bridge  is  of  no  significance.  It  is  a  recent 
structure  of  cement,  the  wooden  bridge  over 
which  the  Minute  Men  charged  having  disap- 
peared more  than  a  century  ago. 

Hawthorne  took  little  interest  in  the  battle- 
field, though  he  did  express  a  desire  to  open  the 
graves  of  the  two  nameless  British  soldiers,  who 
lie  buried  by  the  roadside,  because  of  a  tale  that 
one  of  them  had  been  killed  by  a  boy  with  an 
axe  —  a  fiendish  yarn  which  we  may  be  glad  is 
not  authenticated.  The  great  romancer  confessed 
that  the  field  between  the  battlefield  and  his 
house  interested  him  far  more  because  of  the 
Indian  arrow-heads  and  other  relics  he  could 
pick  up  there  —  a  trick  he  had  learned  from 
Thoreau. 

On  our  way  back  to  the  village  we  made  a  turn 
to  the  left,  for  a  visit  to  Sleepy  Hollow  Cemetery. 
Never  was  such  a  place  more  appropriately  named. 
An  elliptical  bowl,  bordered  by  grassy  knolls, 
with  flowering  shrubs  and  green  groves,  forms  a 
perfect  cradle  among  the  hills  in  which  sleep 

187 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

generation  after  generation  of  the  inhabitants 
of  old  Concord.  On  the  opposite  side  of  the  hol- 
low, well  up  the  slope  of  the  hill  and  shaded  by 
many  trees,  we  came  to  the  graves  of  the  Emer- 
sons,  the  Thoreaus,and  the  Hawthornes,  in  neigh- 
borly proximity.  The  Emerson  grave  seemed  em- 
inently satisfactory.  A  rough-hewn  boulder  at 
the  foot  of  a  tall  pine  marks  the  resting-place  of 
a  strong,  sincere,  and  unpretentious  character, 
who  lived  close  to  Nature.  By  his  side  lies  Lidian, 
his  wife,  with  an  inscription  on  her  tombstone, 
which  few,  perchance,  stop  to  read,  but  which 
ought  to  be  read  by  all  who  can  appreciate  this 
rare  tribute  to  a  woman's  worth :  — 

In  her  youth  an  unusual  sense  of 
the  Divine  Presence  was  granted  her 

and  she  retained  through  life 
the  impress  of  that  high  Communion. 

To  her  children  she  seemed  in  her 

native  ascendancy  and  unquestioning 

courage,  a  Queen,  a  Flower  in 

elegance  and  delicacy. 

The  love  and  care  for  her  husband  and 

children  was  her  first  earthly  interest 

but  with  overflowing  compassion 

her  heart  went  out  to  the  slave,  the  sick 

and  the  dumb  creation.  She  remembered 

them  that  were  in  bonds  as  bound  with  them. 

Thoreau's  grave  is  not  quite  so  satisfactory. 
It  creates  the  impression  that  the  poet  and  nat- 
uralist who  brought  fame  to  his  family  was  only 

188 


LANDMARKS  OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

one  of  a  considerable  number  of  children  and 
died  in  infancy  with  all  the  rest.  It  is  marked 
with  a  small  headstone  and  the  single  name, 
Henry.  In  the  center  of  the  lot  a  larger  stone 
records  the  names  of  all  the  members  of  the  family 
who  lie  buried  there. 

The  Hawthorne  grave  is  wholly  unsatisfactory. 
It  is  not  easily  found  by  a  stranger,  even  after 
careful  directions.  The  small  lot  is  inclosed  by  an 
ugly  fence,  only  partially  concealed  by  a  poorly 
kept  hedge.  By  making  an  effort  one  can  peep 
through  and  see  a  simple  headstone  with  the 
name  Hawthorne.  The  most  conspicuous  object 
in  the  inclosure  is  a  big  sign  warning  the  public 
not  to  pluck  the  leaves,  etc.,  and  ending  with  the 
curt  injunction,  "Have  respect  for  the  living  if 
not  for  the  dead."  The  unsightly  fence  and  the 
rudeness  of  the  sign  clang  discordantly  upon  the 
sensibilities  of  those  who  have  been  taught  to 
admire  the  gracious  hospitality  and  courteous  dis- 
position of  the  man.  We  came  to  gaze  reverently 
upon  the  grave  of  a  man  whom  we  had  seemed  to 
know  for  many  years  as  a  personal  friend,  but 
found  ourselves  treated  with  contempt  as  if  we 
were  merely  vulgar  seekers  for  useless  souvenirs ! 
Let  us  get  back  to  the  village  and  see  the  things 
of  life. 

Next  to  the  Old  Manse,  the  most  interesting 
house  in  Concord  is  Emerson's.  It  is  southeast 
of  the  public  square,  at  the  point  where  the 

189 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

Cambridge  Turnpike  joins  the  Lexington  Road. 
When  Emerson  bought  it  in  1835,  it  was  on  the 
outskirts  of  the  village  and  not  prepossessing. 
He  said,  himself,  "  It  is  in  a  mean  place,  and  can- 
not be  fine  until  trees  and  flowers  give  it  a  char- 
acter of  its  own.  But  we  shall  crowd  so  many 
books  and  papers,  and,  if  possible,  wise  friends 
into  it,  that  it  shall  have  as  much  wit  as  it  can 
carry."  In  September  of  that  year,  Emerson  went 
to  Plymouth  and  was  married  to  Miss  Lydia 
Jackson,  in  a  colonial  mansion  belonging  to  the 
bride,  who  suggested  that  they  remain  there. 
But  Concord  had  charms  which  the  poet  could 
not  sacrifice,  so  the  couple  established  themselves 
in  the  big  house  at  the  southern  edge  of  the 
village,  where,  ere  long,  the  philosopher  was  divid- 
ing time  between  his  study  and  the  vegetable- 
garden,  while  Lidian,  as  her  husband  preferred  to 
call  her,  set  out  her  favorite  flowers  transplanted 
from  the  garden  at  Plymouth. 

The  first  thing  that  strikes  your  eye,  as  you 
pass  the  Emerson  house,  is  the  row  of  great 
horse-chestnuts  shading  its  front.  Mr.  Coolidge, 
of  Boston,  who  built  the  house  in  1828,  remem- 
bered the  lofty  chestnuts  of  his  boyhood  home  in 
Bowdoin  Square  and  promptly  set  to  work  to 
duplicate  them  when  he  completed  his  new  coun- 
try house.  Emerson  added  to  his  original  two 
acres  until  he  had  nine,  and  planted  an  orchard 
of  apple  trees  and  pear  trees,  on  which  Thoreau 

190 


LANDMARKS  OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

did  the  grafting.  "  When  I  bought  my  farm," 
said  Emerson,  "  I  did  not  know  what  a  bargain 
I  had  in  the  bluebirds,  bobolinks,  and  thrushes, 
which  were  not  charged  in  the  bill.  As  little  did 
I  guess  what  sublime  mornings  and  sunsets  I 
was  buying,  what  reaches  of  landscape,  and  what 
fields  and  lanes  for  a  tramp."  To  appreciate  the 
full  extent,  therefore,  of  Emerson's  domain,  we 
must  next  visit  the  favorite  objective  of  his  Sun- 
day walks,  Walden  Pond,  only  a  mile  or  two  away. 
Walden  Pond  is  a  pretty  sheet  of  water,  about 
half  a  mile  long,  completely  inclosed  by  trees, 
which  grow  very  near  to  the  water's  edge.  I 
fancy  the  visitors  who  go  there  may  be  divided 
into  two  classes :  first,  those  who  go  for  a  swim 
in  the  cool,  deep  waters,  as  Hawthorne  liked  to 
do;  and  second,  those  who  go  to  lay  a  stone 
upon  the  cairn  that  marks  the  site  of  Thoreau's 
hut.  It  is  well  worth  a  pilgrimage,  in  these  days, 
to  see  the  place  where  a  man  actually  built  a 
dwelling-house  at  a  cost  of  $28.12£  and  lived  in 
it  two  years  at  an  estimated  expense  of  $1.09  a 
month.  One  of  his  extravagances  was  a  water- 
melon, costing  two  cents,  and  this  was  classified 
in  his  summary  among  the  "  Experiments  which 
failed ! "  The  site  of  the  hut  was  admirably 
chosen.  It  overlooks  a  little  cove  or  bay,  and  the 
still  surface  of  the  pond,  glimpses  of  which  could 
be  seen  through  the  trees,  reflecting  the  blue  sky 
overhead,  made  a  beautiful  picture. 

191 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

We  must  now  return  to  the  village,  for  there 
are  two  more  houses  to  be  seen,  both  on  the  Lex- 
ington Road.  The  first  is  the  Alcott  house,  now 
restored  to  something  like  its  original  condition 
and  preserved  as  a  memorial  to  the  author  of 
"  Little  Women."  A.  Bronson  Alcott  came  to 
live  in  Concord  in  1840,  having  visited  there  for 
the  first  time  five  years  earlier.  Emerson  at  once 
hailed  him  as  "  the  most  extraordinary  man  and 
the  highest  genius  of  his  time."  He  marveled  at 
the  "  steadiness  of  his  vision  "  before  which  "  we 
little  men  creep  about  ashamed."  The  "  Sage  of 
Concord"  was  too  modest  and  time  failed  to  jus- 
tify his  enthusiasm  for  the  new  neighbor.  He 
came  to  admit  that  Alcott,  though  a  man  of 
lofty  spirit,  could  not  be  trusted  as  to  matters  of 
fact ;  that  he  did  not  have  the  power  to  write  or 
otherwise  communicate  his  thoughts;  and  that 
he  was  like  a  gold-ore,  sometimes  found  in  Cali- 
fornia, "  in  which  the  gold  is  in  combination  with 
such  other  elements  that  no  chemistry  is  able  to 
separate  it  without  great  loss." 

Alcott  was  a  "  handy  man  "  with  tools,  could 
construct  fanciful  summer-houses  or  transform  a 
melodeon  into  a  bookcase,  as  a  piece  of  his  handi- 
work in  the  "  restored  "  house  will  testify.  But 
in  intellectual  matters  he  fired  his  bullets  of  wis- 
dom so  far  over  the  heads  of  his  fellow  men  that 
they  never  came  down,  and  therefore  penetrated 
nobody's  brain. 

192 


•LANDMARKS  OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

This  lack  of  practical  wisdom  came  near  bring- 
ing disaster  to  the  family.  But  his  daughter  came 
to  the  rescue  with  "  Little  Women,"  a  book  that 
has  had  an  astonishing  success  from  the  first. 
Originally  published  in  1868,  it  has  had  a  circu- 
lation estimated  at  one  million  copies  and  is  still 
in  demand. 

In  the  winter  of  1862-63,  Louisa  M.  Alcott 
marched  off  to  war,  carrying  several  volumes  of 
Dickens  along  with  her  lint  and  bandages,  deter- 
mined that  she  would  not  only  bind  up  the  sol- 
diers' wounds,  but  also  relieve  the  tedium  of  their 
hospital  life  during  the  long  days  of  convales- 
cence. When  she  was  ready  to  start,  Alcott  said 
he  was  sending  "his  only  son."  Girl  visitors  to 
the  old  "  Orchard  house  "  take  great  delight  in 
the  haunts  of  Meg,  Amy,  Beth,  and  Joe,  and 
particularly  in  Amy's  bedroom,  where  the  young 
artist's  drawings  on  the  doors  and  window-frames 
are  still  preserved. 

Just  beyond  the  Alcott  house  is  a  pine  grove 
on  the  side  of  a  hill  and  then  the  "  Wayside," 
Hawthorne's  home  for  the  last  twelve  years  of 
his  life.  When  Hawthorne  left  the  Old  Manse, 
he  went  to  Salem,  then  to  Lenox,  and  for  a  short 
time  to  West  Newton.  In  the  summer  of  1852, 
he  returned  to  Concord,  having  purchased  the 
"  Wayside  "  from  Alcott. 

While  living  in  Lenox  he  had  written  "  The 
Wonder-Book,"  which  so  fascinated  the  children, 

193 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

including  their  elders  as  well,  that  his  first  task 
upon  settling  in  the  new  home  was  to  prepare, 
in  response  to  many  urgent  demands,  a  second 
series  of  the  same  kind  to  be  known  as  "  The 
Tanglewood  Tales." 

In  the  following  spring  the  family  sailed  for 
Liverpool,  where  Hawthorne  was  to  be  the  Ameri- 
can Consul,  and  from  this  journey  he  did  not 
return  until  1860,  seven  years  later.  He  was 
then  at  the  height  of  his  fame  as  the  author  of 
"  The  Scarlet  Letter,"  "  The  House  of  the  Seven 
Gables,"  and  "  The  Marble  Faun."  As  soon  as  his 
family  was  settled  in  the  Wayside,  he  began  ex- 
tensive alterations,  the  most  remarkable  of  which 
is  the  tower,  which  not  only  spoiled  the  archi- 
tecture of  the  building,  but  failed,  partially  at 
least,  to  serve  its  primary  purpose  as  a  study. 
It  was  a  room  about  twenty  feet  square,  reached 
by  a  narrow  stairway  where  the  author  could 
shut  himself  in  against  all  intrusion.  A  small 
stove  made  the  air  stifling  in  winter,  and  the  sun's 
rays  upon  the  roof  made  it  unbearable  in  sum- 
mer. Nevertheless,  Hawthorne  managed  to  make 
some  use  of  it  and  here  he  wrote  "  Our  Old 
Home."  I  fancy  he  must  have  composed  most  of 
it  while  walking  back  and  forth  in  the  seclusion 
of  the  pine  grove  which  he  had  purchased  with 
the  house.  And  here  in  this  pleasant  grove  we 
must  leave  him  for  the  present,  while  we  go  back 
to  Boston  and  thence  to  Salem,  to  search  out  a 
194 


LANDMARKS  OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

few  more  old  houses,  which  would  fall  into  decay 
and  finally  disappear  without  notice,  like  hun- 
dreds of  others  of  the  same  kind,  but  for  the 
one  simple  fact  that  the  touch  of  Hawthorne's 
presence,  more  than  half  a  century  ago,  conferred 
upon  these  dingy  old  buildings  a  dignity  and 
interest  that  draw  to  them  annually  a  host  of 
visitors  from  all  parts  of  the  United  States. 


195 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 
II 

SALEM 

ON  arrival  at  Salem  we  inquired  of  a  local 
druggist  whether  he  could  direct  us  to  any  of 
the  Hawthorne  landmarks.  He  promptly  pleaded 
ignorance,  but  referred  us  to  an  old  citizen  who 
chanced  to  be  in  the  store  and  who  admitted  that 
he  knew  all  about  the  town,  having  been  "  born 
and  raised  "  there.  Did  he  know  whether  there 
was  a  real  "  House  of  Seven  Gables  "  ?  Well,  he 
had  heard  of  such  a  place,  but  it  was  torn  down 
long  ago.  Could  he  direct  us  to  the  Custom 
House  ?  Oh,  yes,  right  down  the  street :  he  would 
show  us  the  way.  Any  houses  where  Hawthorne 
had  lived?  Well,  no,—  he  had  n't  "followed  that 
much."  Had  any  of  his  family  ever  seen  Haw- 
thorne, or  spoken  of  him  ?  Yes  —  but  he  did  n't 
amount  to  much :  kind  of  a  lazy  fellow.  People 
here  did  n't  set  much  store  by  him. 

We  were  moving  away,  fearing  that  the  old 
fellow  would  offer  to  accompany  us  and  thereby 
spoil  some  of  our  anticipated  enjoyment  of  the  old 
houses,  when  he  called  after  us  —  "Say,  there  's 
an  old  house  right  down  this  street  that  I've 
heard  had  something  to  do  with  Hawthorne.  I 
don't  know  just  what,  but  maybe  the  folks  there 
can  tell  you.  It's  just  this  side  of  the  grave- 
yard." We  thanked  the  old  man,  and  following 

196 


LANDMARKS  OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

his  directions,  soon  stood  before  an  old  three- 
story  wooden  house,  with  square  front,  big  chim- 
neys, and  its  upper  windows  considerably  shorter 
than  those  below— —a  type  common  enough  in 
Salem  and  other  New  England  towns.  It  stood 
directly  on  the  sidewalk  and  had  a  small,  inclosed 
porch,  with  oval  windows  on  each  side,  through 
which  one  could  look  up  or  down  the  street.  In 
all  these  details  it  agreed  exactly  with  Hawthorne's 
description  of  the  house  of  Dr.  Grimshawe.  Adjoin- 
ing it  on  the  left  was  the  very  graveyard  where 
Nat  and  little  Elsie  chased  butterflies  and  played 
hide-and-seek  among  the  quaint  old  tombstones, 
which  had  puffy  little  cherubs  and  doleful  verses 
carved  upon  them.  That  corner  room,  no  doubt, 
that  overlooks  the  graveyard,  was  old  Dr.  Grim's 
study,  so  thickly  festooned  with  cobwebs,  where 
the  grisly  old  monomaniac  sat  with  his  long  clay 
pipe  and  bottle  of  brandy,  with  no  better  com- 
pany than  an  enormous  tropical  spider,  which 
hung  directly  above  his  head  and  seemed  at  times 
to  be  the  incarnation  of  the  Evil  One  himself. 

How  could  Hawthorne,  in  his  later  years,  con- 
ceive such  horrible  suggestions  in  connection 
with  a  house  which  must  have  been  associated  in 
his  mind  with  the  happiest  memories  of  his  life? 
For  here  lived  the  Peabody  family,  Dr.  Nathaniel 
Peabody  and  his  highly  cultivated  wife,  their  three 
sons,  only  one  of  whom  lived  to  maturity,  and 
their  three  remarkable  daughters  —  Elizabeth 

197 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

Palmer,  who  achieved  fame  as  one  of  the  fore- 
most kindergartners  of  America  and  died  at  a 
ripe  old  age ;  Mary,  who  became  the  wife  of 
Horace  Mann;  and  the  gentle,  scholarly,  and 
high-minded  Sophia,  who  refused  to  come  down 
to  see  Hawthorne,  on  plea  of  illness,  the  first 
time  he  called  at  the  house,  but  fell  in  love  with 
him  at  a  subsequent  visit.  The  calls  were  frequent 
enough  after  that,  and  before  the  family  left  the 
old  house  to  reside  in  Boston,  the  lovers  were 
engaged  to  be  married. 

During  the  period  of  the  courtship,  Hawthorne 
lived  with  his  mother  and  two  sisters  in  a  house 
on  Herbert  Street  not  far  distant,  and  the  two 
families  came  into  close  neighborly  relations.  Of 
course,  we  walked  over  to  Herbert  Street  to  find 
this  house,  but  what  remains  of  it  has  been 
remodeled  into  an  ordinary  tenement  house  and 
no  longer  resembles  the  house  to  which  Sophia 
Peabody  once  sent  a  bouquet  of  tulips  for  Mr. 
Hawthorne,  only  to  have  it  quietly  appropriated 
by  his  sister  Elizabeth,  who  thought  her  brother 
incapable  of  appreciating  flowers,  though  she 
kindly  permitted  him  to  look  at  them !  In  the 
rear  of  this  building,  fronting  on  Union  Street, 
is  the  plain,  two-story-and-a-half  house,  with  a 
gambrel  roof,  where  Hawthorne  was  born. 

When  the  Hawthornes  returned  to  Salem,  after 
their  residence  in  the  Old  Manse,  they  occupied 
the  Herbert  Street  house,  with  Madam  Haw- 
198 


LANDMARKS  OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

tliorne  and  her  two  daughters,  Elizabeth  and 
Louisa.  This  proved  inconvenient  for  so  large  a 
family  and  they  moved  into  a  three-story  house 
on  Chestnut  Street,  well  shaded  by  some  fine  old 
elms.  This  was  only  a  temporary  arrangement, 
and  soon  afterward,  the  family  took  a  large  three- 
story  house  on  Mall  Street,  where  the  mother 
and  sisters  occupied  separate  apartments.  Haw- 
thorne's study  was  on  the  third  floor  —  near 
enough  his  own  family  for  convenience,  but  suf- 
ficiently remote  for  quiet.  It  was  to  this  house 
that  he  returned  one  day  in  dejected  mood  and 
announced  that  he  had  been  removed  from  his 
position  at  the  Custom  House.  "  Oh !  then,  you  can 
write  your  book ! "  was  the  unexpectedly  joyous 
reply  of  his  wife,  who  knew  that  he  had  a  story 
weighing  on  his  mind.  And  then  she  produced 
the  savings  which  she  had  carefully  hoarded  to 
meet  just  such  an  emergency.  "The  Scarlet  Let- 
ter "  was  begun  on  the  same  day. 

It  was  to  this  same  house  that  James  T.  Fields 
came  in  the  following  winter  and  found  Haw- 
thorne in  despondent  mood  sitting  in  the  upper 
room  huddled  over  a  small  stove.  The  preceding 
half-year  had  been  the  most  trying  period  in  his 
life.  Discouragement  over  the  loss  of  his  position 
and  the  prospect  of  meager  returns  for  his  literary 
work  was  followed  by  serious  pecuniary  embar- 
rassment, for  Mrs.  Hawthorne's  store  of  gold 
was,  after  all,  a  tiny  one.  The  illness  and  death 
199 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

of  his  mother  had  left  him  in  a  nervous  state  from 
the  great  strain  of  emotion,  and  this  was  followed 
by  the  sickness  of  every  member  of  the  house- 
hold, himself  included.  The  story  of  how  Fields 
left  the  house  with  the  manuscript  of  "  The 
Scarlet  Letter"  in  his  pocket  is  well  known.  The 
immediate  success  of  the  novel  proved  to  be  the 
tonic  that  restored  the  author  to  health  and  hap- 
piness, and  when  he  left  Mall  Street  in  the  fol- 
lowing spring  he  was  no  longer  the  "  obscurest 
man  of  letters  in  America." 

The  old  Salem  Custom  House  is  the  best-known 
building  in  the  town.  As  we  stood  before  it  and 
looked  upon  the  great  eagle  above  the  portico, 
with  "  a  bunch  of  intermingled  thunderbolts  and 
barbed  arrows  in  each  claw  "  and  a  "  truculent 
attitude  "  that  seemed  "  to  threaten  mischief  to 
the  inoffensive  community,"  it  seemed  as  though 
we  might  fairly  expect  the  former  surveyor,  or 
his  ghost,  to  open  the  door  and  walk  down  the 
old  granite  steps. 

I  have  already  mentioned  the  apparent  indif- 
ference toward  Hawthorne  of  a  certain  old  citizen 
of  Salem  —  a  feeling  which  characterizes  a  large 
part  of  the  population,  particularly  those  whose 
ancestors  have  lived  longest  in  the  town.  One 
would  naturally  expect  Salem  to  be  proud  of  her 
most  distinguished  citizen,  to  delight  in  honoring 
him,  and  to  extend  a  cordial  welcome  to  thou- 
sands of  strangers  who  come  to  pay  him  homage. 

200 


LANDMARKS  OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

Shakespeare  is  the  principal  asset  of  Stratford- 
on-Avon,  Scott  of  Melrose,  Burns  of  Ayr,  and 
Wordsworth  of  the  English  Lakes.  Every  citizen 
is  ready  to  talk  of  them.  Not  so  of  Hawthorne 
and  Salem.  The  town  is  quite  independent,  and 
would  hold  up  its  head  if  there  had  never  been 
any  Hawthorne.  The  later  generation,  it  is  true, 
recognize  his  greatness,  but  the  prejudice  of  the 
older  families  is  sufficient  to  check  any  manifes- 
tation of  enthusiasm. 

This  old  Custom  House  upon  which  we  are 
looking  furnishes  the  explanation.  When  Haw- 
thorne took  possession  as  surveyor,  he  found 
offices  ornamented  with  rows  of  sleepy  officials, 
sitting  in  old-fashioned  chairs  which  were  tilted 
on  their  hind  legs  against  the  walls.  These  old 
gentlemen  made  an  irresistible  appeal  to  his 
sense  of  humor,  such  that  he  could  scarcely  have 
avoided  the  impulse  to  write  a  description  of 
their  whimsicalities.  After  his  "  decapitation  "  he 
yielded  to  the  impulse  and  prepared  in  the  best 
of  good  humor  the  amusing  description  of  his 
former  associates  in  the  "  Introduction  "  to  "  The 
Scarlet  Letter."  It  brought  the  wrath  of  Salem 
upon  his  head.  These  old  fellows  did  not  fancy 
being  caricatured  as  "  wearisome  old  souls,"  who 
"  seemed  to  have  flung  away  all  the  golden  grain 
of  practical  wisdom  which  they  had  enjoyed  so 
many  opportunities  of  harvesting,  and  most  care- 
fully to  have  stored  their  memories  with  the 

201 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

husks."  Especially  enraged  were  the  family  of 
the  Old  Inspector  of  whom  Hawthorne  said  noth- 
ing worse  than  that  he  remembered  all  the  good 
dinners  he  had  eaten.  "  There  were  flavors  on 
his  palate  that  had  lingered  there  not  less  than 
sixty  or  seventy  years,  and  were  still  apparently 
as  fresh  as  that  of  the  mutton  chop  which  he  had 
just  devoured  for  his  breakfast,"  said  Hawthorne 
with  fine  humor.  "  He  called  one  of  them  a  pig," 
said  a  Salemite  to  me,  indignantly. 

After  all,  Salem  never  really  knew  Hawthorne. 
Though  the  town  was  his  birthplace,  he  had  little 
liking  for  it,  and  was  seldom  there.  During  the 
four  years  of  his  incumbency  of  the  Custom 
House,  he  kept  aloof  from  the  townspeople,  most 
of  whom  had  no  knowledge  whatever  of  his  liter- 
ary efforts.  When  the  fame  of  "The  Scarlet 
Letter  "  had  made  Hawthorne's  name  a  familiar 
one  throughout  America  and  England,  the  author 
was  no  longer  a  resident  of  Salem,  for  immedi- 
ately after  the  publication  of  his  first  and  most 
famous  novel,  he  was  glad  to  seek  relief  from 
the  gloomy  memories  of  Mall  Street  in  the  fresh 
mountain  air  of  the  Berkshires. 

Hawthorne,  though  apparently  glad  to  escape, 
still  allowed  his  thought  to  dwell  in  Salem,  for  in 
the  same  year  of  the  completion  of  "  The  Scarlet 
Letter"  and  his  removal  to  Lenox,  Massachu- 
setts, he  began  "  The  House  of  the  Seven  Ga- 
bles." The  identity  of  this  house  has  long  been 

202 


LANDMARKS  OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

a  matter  of  curiosity.  Three  old  Salem  houses, 
two  of  which  have  since  disappeared,  have  been 
pointed  out  as  originals,  the  authenticity  of  all 
of  which  has  been  denied  by  George  Parsons 
Lathrop,  Hawthorne's  son-in-law,  who  maintains 
that  the  author's  statement,  that  he  built  his 
house  only  of  "materials  long  in  use  for  construct- 
ing castles  in  the  air,"  must  be  taken  literally. 

It  must  not  be  supposed  that  an  author  need 
ever  describe  such  a  building  in  detail  or  provide 
for  its  future  identification.  He  may  do  as  Scott 
often  did,  put  the  details  of  three  or  four  houses 
into  one  structure,  taking  his  material,  not  "  out 
of  the  air,"  but  from  recollections  of  many  places 
he  has  seen.  It  does  not  detract  from  the  sup- 
posed "  original"  to  find  that  the  author  has  made 
material,  even  radical,  departures  from  the  orig- 
inal plan.  The  real  point  of  interest  is  to  know 
whether  the  old  landmark  suggested  anything  to 
the  author,  and  if  so,  how  much. 

To  those  who  follow  this  line  of  reasoning, 
an  old  house  at  the  foot  of  Turner  Street,  now 
commonly  known  as  "  The  House  of  the  Seven 
Gables,"  has  many  points  of  interest.  It  is  a 
weather-stained  old  building  dating  back  to  1669, 
and  contains  so  many  gables  that  you  are  rea- 
sonably content  to  accept  seven  as  the  number, 
though  I  believe  it  has  eight,  not  counting  the 
one  over  the  rear  porch,  recently  added. 

The  identification  of  this  house  as  the  one 
203 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

which,  more  than  any  other,  suggested  to  Haw- 
thorne the  idea  of  a  house  of  seven  gables,  rests 
upon  two  facts.  The  first  is  that  in  1782  it  came 
into  the  possession  of  Captain  Samuel  Ingersoll, 
whose  wife  was  a  niece  of  Hawthorne's  grand- 
father. It  passed,  later,  to  their  only  surviving 
daughter,  Susannah.  Her  portrait,  which  now 
hangs  in  the  parlor  of  the  old  house,  shows  that, 
as  a  young  woman,  she  was  not  unattractive.  An 
unfortunate  love  affair  caused  her  to  withdraw 
from  society  and  to  live  a  life  of  solitude  in  the 
old  house,  from  which  all  male  visitors  were  rig- 
idly excluded.  An  exception  seems  to  have  been 
made  in  favor  of  her  cousin  Nathaniel  Hawthorne, 
who,  it  is  said,  was  a  frequent  visitor  and  lis- 
tened with  interest  to  the  legends  of  the  house 
as  told  by  his  elder  cousin. 

The  second  fact  of  identification  rests  upon 
more  recent  evidence.  The  building  was  pur- 
chased in  1908  by  a  generous  resident  of  Salem 
and  turned  into  a  settlement  house.  This  lady, 
who  possesses  the  highest  antiquarian  instincts, 
determined  to  restore  the  house  to  its  original 
form.  In  doing  so  she  discovered  traces  of  four 
gables  which  had  been  removed.  These,  with 
three  that  remained,  made  the  desired  seven,  but, 
unfortunately,  about  the  same  time  an  old  plan 
was  unearthed  which  proved  that  the  house  at 
one  time  must  have  had  eight  gables !  So  the 
house  has  been  restored  to  its  full  quota  of  eight. 

204 


LANDMARKS  OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

When  Hawthorne  was  calling  there  it  had  only 
three  gables,  and  his  elderly  kinswoman  must 
have  told  traditions  of  the  time  when  it  had  seven 
or  eight,  as,  the  case  may  be.  And  so  the  ques- 
tion of  gables  becomes  as  bewildering  as  Tom 
Sawyer's  aunt's  spoons. 

Aside  from  this  not  very  profitable  specula- 
tion, the  house  is  an  interesting  survival  of  the 
time  when  Salem  was  a  seaport  town  of  some 
importance.  A  secret  staircase  has  been  recon- 
structed according  to  the  recollections  of  the  man 
who  took  it  down  a  quarter  of  a  century  ago.  It 
opens  by  a  secret  spring  in  a  panel  of  the  wall 
in  the  third-story  front  room,  now  known  as 
"Clifford's  chamber,"  and  ascends  through  a 
false  fireplace  in  the  dining-room.  It  will  be  re- 
membered how  Clifford  mysteriously  disappeared 
from  his  room,  and  as  mysteriously  reappeared  in 
the  parlor  where  Judge  Pyncheon  sat  in  the  easy- 
chair,  dead.  Perhaps  he  came  down  this  secret 
stairway,  though  Hawthorne  forgot  to  mention  it. 

A  little  shop,  where  real  gingerbread  "Jim 
Crows  "  are  sold,  makes  the  present  "  House  of 
the  Seven  Gables  "  seem  real,  so  that  when  the 
bell  tinkles  as  you  open  the  door,  you  would  not 
be  at  all  surprised  if  Hepzibah  Pyncheon  herself 
should  appear,  entering  from  the  quaint  little 
New  England  kitchen  on  the  right.  A  sunny 
chamber  upstairs  now  called  "  Phoebe's  room," 
and  a  pleasant  little  garden  in  the  rear,  still 

205 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

further  heighten  the  illusion  and  make  one  feel 
that  if  this  is  not  the  real  "  House  of  the  Seven 
Gables,"  it  certainly  ought  to  be. 

The  conditions  under  which  "The  House  of  the 
Seven  Gables"  was  written  were  quite  the  reverse 
of  those  which  brought  forth  "  The  Scarlet  Let- 
ter." Instead  of  obscurity,  ill  health,  and  financial 
difficulties,  the  author  was  now  in  the  full  flush  of 
his  fame,  reveling  in  the  friendship  of  the  most 
distinguished  men  of  letters,  enjoying  the  best 
of  health  himself,  and  happy  in  the  consciousness 
that  his  dear  wife  was  also  well,  and  living  amid 
the  most  delightful  surroundings,  free  from  care 
and  taking  no  anxious  thought  for  the  morrow. 

The  people  of  Salem  are  now  preparing  to  make 
ample  amends  for  any  neglect  of  Hawthorne  in 
the  past.  A  committee  of  prominent  citizens  has 
been  at  work  for  several  years  upon  a  plan  to 
erect  a  handsome  statue  upon  the  Common,  the 
design  for  which  has  been  made  by  a  well-known 
artist,  and  a  portion  of  the  funds  collected.  With 
this  monument  before  them,  we  may  reasonably 
hope  that  future  generations  will  be  able  to  for- 
give the  frankness  which  irritated  their  ances- 
tors, though  it  was  kindly  meant,  and  eventually 
open  their  hearts  to  adopt  Hawthorne  as  their 
very  own,  just  as  Stratford  does  Shakespeare, 
acknowledging  the  full  extent  of  their  obliga- 
tion for  the  luster  which  his  brilliant  genius  has 
shed  upon  their  town. 

206 


LANDMARKS  OF  NEW  ENGLAND 
III 

PORTSMOUTH 

IF  Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich  were  living  to-day 
and  could  enter  the  front  door  of  his  grand- 
father's house  in  Court  Street,  Portsmouth,  New 
Hampshire,  he  would  be  likely  to  have  a  strange 
feeling  of  suddenly  renewed  youth,  for  his  eyes 
would  rest  upon  the  same  rooms  and  many  of  the 
same  furnishings  as  those  which  greeted  him  in 
1849,  when  he  returned  to  the  old  house,  a  lad 
of  twelve,  to  enter  upon  those  happy  boyish  ex- 
periences so  pleasantly  related  in  "  The  Story  of 
a  Bad  Boy."  And  then,  as  he  passed  from  room 
to  room  and  gazed  once  more  upon  the  old  fa- 
miliar sights,  he  would  experience  a  deeper  and 
richer  joy  —  a  sense  of  pride,  mingled  with  love 
and  gratitude,  for  this  unique  and  splendid  trib- 
ute to  his  memory,  from  his  faithful  wife  and 
many  loyal  friends. 

In  the  summer  of  1907,  following  the  death 
of  Mr.  Aldrich,  which  occurred  in  the  spring  of 
that  year,  it  was  suggested  in  a  local  newspaper 
of  Portsmouth,  New  Hampshire,  that  the  old 
Bailey  house,  where  "Tom  Bailey"  lived  with 
his  "  Grandfather  Nutter,"  should  be  purchased 
by  the  town  and  refurnished  as  a  permanent  me- 
morial to  its  distinguished  son.  The  response  was 
instant  and  hearty.  The  Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich 

207 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

Memorial  Association  was  at  once  formed,  and  a 
fund  of  ten  thousand  dollars  was  raised  by  popular 
subscriptions,  in  sums  varying  from  one  dollar 
to  one  thousand  dollars.  The  house,  which  had 
fallen  into  alien  hands  and  had  not  been  kept 
in  good  repair,  was  purchased  and  restored  to 
its  original  condition,  and  the  heirs  gladly  gave 
back  all  that  had  been  taken  away  at  the  death 
of  Grandfather  Bailey.  On  June  30,  1908,  the 
restored  house  was  formally  dedicated  by  a  dis- 
tinguished representation  of  Aldrich's  friends, 
including  Richard  Watson  Gilder,  William  Dean 
Ho  wells,  Hamilton  Wright  Mabie,  Thomas  Went- 
worth  Higginson,  Thomas  Nelson  Page,  Samuel 
L.  Clemens,  and  many  others  whose  names  are 
well  known. 

The  "  Nutter "  house,  or  the  "  Aldrich  Me- 
morial" as  it  is  officially  known,  impresses  one 
with  a  sense  of  perfect  satisfaction.  I  have  seen 
memorials  that  are  barn-like  in  their  emptiness, 
so  difficult  has  it  been  to  secure  a  sufficient  num- 
ber of  relics  to  furnish  the  rooms;  others  im- 
press me  like  shops  for  the  sale  of  souvenirs; 
others  have  the  cold,  touch-me-not  aspect  of  a 
museum;  and  some  are  overloaded  with  busts, 
pictures,  and  inscriptions  intended  to  convey  an 
impression  of  the  greatness  of  the  former  occu- 
pant. The  Nutter  house,  on  the  contrary,  looks 
as  though  Tom  and  his  grandfather  had  gone  off 
to  the  village  an  hour  before,  and  Aunt  Abigail 

208 


LANDMAEKS  OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

and  Kitty  Collins,  after  "  tidying  "  the  rooms  to 
perfection,  had  slipped  away  to  gossip  with  the 
neighbors.  The  visitor  has  a  feeling  that  real 
people  are  living  there  and  is  surprised  to  learn 
that  at  a  certain  hour  each  day  the  attendants  go 
away  and  lock  it  up  for  the  night. 

Mrs.  Aldrich  told  us  that  when  her  husband 
took  her  there  for  the  first  time,  as  his  bride,  the 
old  house  made  such  a  strong  impression  upon 
her  mind  that  when  she  came  to  restore  the  place, 
many  years  afterward,  she  remembered  distinctly 
where  every  piece  of  furniture  used  to  stand. 
The  perfection  of  her  work  is  seen  in  the  hun- 
dreds of  little  touches  —  the  shawl  thrown  care- 
lessly over  the  back  of  a  chair,  the  fan  lying  on 
the  sofa,  the  books  on  the  center  table,  the  music 
on  the  old-fashioned  square  piano,  grandfather's 
Bible  and  spectacles  on  his  bedroom  table,  the 
embroidered  coverlet  in  the  "blue-chintz  room," 
the  netting  over  Aunt  Abigail's  bed,  the  cloth- 
ing in  the  closets,  and  even  the  night-clothes 
carefully  laid  out  on  each  corpulent  feather  bed. 
I  fancy  the  most  loving  touches  of  all  were  given 
to  the  little  hall  bedroom  where  Tom  Bailey  slept. 
There  is  the  little  window  out  of  which  Tom 
swung  himself,  with  the  aid  of  Kitty  Collins's 
clothes-line,  at  the  awful  hour  of  eleven  o'clock, 
and  tumbled  into  a  big  rosebush,  on  the  night 
before  "  the  Fourth."  The  "  pretty  chintz  cur- 
tain "  may  not  be  the  one  Tom  knew,  but  it  is 

209 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

very  like  it ;  and  there  is  a  very  good  imitation 
of  the  original  wall-paper,  on  which  Tom  counted 
two  hundred  and  sixty-eight  birds,  each  individ- 
ual one  of  which  he  admired,  although  no  such 
bird  ever  existed.  He  knew  the  exact  number 
because  he  once  counted  them  when  laid  up  with 
a  black  eye  and  dreamed  that  the  whole  flock 
flew  out  of  the  window.  The  little  bed  has  "a 
patch  quilt  of  more  colors  than  were  in  Joseph's 
coat/'  and  across  it  lies  a  clean  white  waistcoat 
waiting  for  Tom  to  put  it  on,  as  though  to-mor- 
row would  be  Sunday.  Above  the  head  of  the 
bed  are  the  two  oak  shelves,  holding  the  very 
books  that  Tom  loved.  In  front  of  the  window 
is  the  "  high-backed  chair  studded  with  brass 
nails  like  a  coffin,"  and  on  the  right  "  a  chest  of 
carved  mahogany  drawers  "  and  "  a  looking-glass 
in  a  filigreed  frame."  A  little  swallow-tailed  coat, 
once  worn  by  Tom,  hangs  over  the  back  of  a 
chair,  ready  to  be  worn  again.  Surely  Tom  Bailey 
is  expected  home  to-night ! 

Even  the  garret  is  ready  in  case  to-morrow 
should  be  stormy.  "  Here  meet  together,  as  if  by 
some  preconcerted  arrangement,  all  the  broken- 
down  chairs  of  the  household,  all  the  spavined 
tables,  all  the  seedy  hats,  all  the  intoxicated- 
looking  boots,  all  the  split  walking-sticks  that 
have  retired  from  business,  weary  with  the  march 
of  life."  One  slight  liberty  has  been  taken,  in 
placing  "  The  Ri vermouth  Theater  "  in  one  cor- 

210 


LANDMARKS  OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

ner  of  the  attic,  next  to  Kitty  Collins's  room,  but 
this  may  be  forgiven  in  view  of  the  fact  that  the 
barn,  where  the  "  Theater  "  really  was,  has  dis- 
appeared. 

In  our  anxiety  to  see  Tom's  room  and  the  attic, 
we  have  rushed  upstairs  somewhat  too  rapidly. 
Let  us  now  go  down  and  inspect  the  other  rooms 
with  more  leisure. 

In  the  front  of  the  house,  on  the  second  floor, 
and  at  the  left  of  the  tiny  bedroom  which  Tom 
occupied,  is  Grandfather  Nutter's  room.  It  was 
too  near  for  Tom's  convenience,  and  that  is  why 
the  young  gentleman  lowered  himself  from  the 
window  by  a  rope  —  at  least,  that  was  the  reason 
he  doubtless  argued  to  himself  in  favor  of  the 
more  romantic  mode  of  exit,  although  as  a  mat- 
ter of  fact  grandfather  was  a  sound  sleeper  and 
Tom  might  have  walked  boldly  downstairs  with- 
out awakening  him.  Still  he  would  have  had  to 
pass  the  door  of  Aunt  Abigail's  room  at  the  head 
of  the  stairs,  and  if  the  old  lady  had  suddenly 
appeared,  Tom  could  scarcely  have  escaped  a  dose 
of  "  hot  drops,"  which  his  aunt  considered  a  cer- 
tain cure  for  any  known  ailment,  from  a  black 
eye  to  a  broken  arm.  Aunt  Abigail,  it  will  be 
remembered,  was  the  maiden  sister  of  Captain 
Nutter,  who  "  swooped  down  on  him,"  at  the 
funeral  of  the  captain's  wife,  "  with  a  bandbox 
in  one  hand  and  a  faded  blue  cotton  umbrella  in 
the  other."  Though  apparently  intending  to  stay 

211 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

only  a  few  days,  she  decided  that  her  presence 
was  indispensable  to  the  captain,  and  whether  he 
wished  it  or  not  she  kept  on  staying  for  seven- 
teen years,  and  might  have  stayed  longer  had 
not  death  released  her  from  the  self-imposed 
duty. 

On  the  right  of  Tom's  room  is  "the  blue- 
chintz  room,  into  which  a  ray  of  sun  was  never 
allowed  to  penetrate."  But  it  was  "  thrown  open 
and  dusted,  and  its  mouldy  air  made  sweet  with 
a  bouquet  of  pot-roses  "  on  the  occasion  of  Nelly 
Glentworth's  visit,  and  a  very  delightful  room 
Nelly  must  have  found  it,  if  it  looked  as  well 
then  as  it  does  now,  under  the  skillful  direction 
of  Mrs.  Aldrich. 

Across  the  hall  from  Aunt  Abigail's  room  is 
the  guest  chamber.  An  old-fashioned  rocking- 
chair  by  the  window,  with  a  Bible  and  candle 
conveniently  placed  on  a  stand  close  by,  offer  the 
visitor  every  opportunity  to  get  himself  into  a 
proper  frame  of  mind  before  taking  a  plunge 
into  the  depths  of  the  snow-white  mountain  of 
feathers,  hospitably  piled  up  to  an  enormous 
height  for  his  comfort. 

Descending  now  to  the  main  floor  (for  we  are 
inspecting  this  house  exactly  contrary  to  the  usual 
order),  we  step  into  the  large  corner  room  at  our 
left.  Here  visions  arise  of  Tom  sitting  disconso- 
lately on  the  haircloth  sofa,  in  the  evening,  driven 
to  distraction  by  the  monotonous  click-click  of 

212 


LANDMARKS  OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

Aunt  Abigail's  knitting-needles,  but  sometimes 
happily  diverted  by  the  spectacle  of  grandfather 
going  to  sleep  over  his  newspaper  and  setting 
fire  to  it  with  the  small  block-tin  lamp  which  he 
held  in  his  hand. 

Across  the  hall  is  the  parlor,  which  was  seldom 
open  except  on  Sundays,  and  was  "  pervaded  by  a 
strong  smell  of  center  table."  Here  again  we  fancy 
Tom  sitting  in  one  corner,  "  crushed."  All  his 
favorite  books  are  banished  to  the  sitting-room 
closet  until  Monday  morning.  There  is  nothing 
to  do  and  nothing  to  read  except  Baxter's  "  Saint's 
Rest."  "  Genial  converse,  harmless  books,  smiles, 
lightsome  hearts,  all  are  banished."  It  was  no 
fault  of  the  room,  however,  that  Tom  felt  dole- 
ful, for  there  is  a  fine,  wide,  open  fireplace  with  big 
brass  andirons  from  which  a  wonderful  amount 
of  cheer  might  have  been  extracted,  while  a  piano 
in  one  corner  and  some  shelves  of  books  in 
another  were  capable  of  providing  boundless  en- 
tertainment, had  the  room  been  accessible  on  any 
other  day  than  Sunday. 

Passing  down  through  the  hall  we  enter  a  door 
on  the  left,  into  the  dining-room.  Do  you  remem- 
ber how  Captain  Nutter  tormented  poor  Tom  at 
the  breakfast  table,  on  the  morning  of  the  Fourth 
of  July,  by  reading  from  the  Rivermouth  "  Bar- 
nacle "  an  account  of  the  burning  of  the  stage- 
coach the  night  before  ?  "  Miscreants  unknown," 
read  the  grandfather,  while  Tom's  hair  stood 

213 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

on  end.  "  Five  dollars  reward  offered  for  the 
apprehension  of  the  perpetrators.  Sho !  I  hope 
Wingate  will  catch  them/'  continued  the  old  gen- 
tleman, while  Tom  nearly  ceased  to  breathe.  And 
the  sly  old  fox  knew  all  about  it  and  had  already 
settled  Tom's  share  of  the  damages  ! 

We  now  cross  the  hall  into  the  kitchen,  which 
we  ought  to  have  visited  first,  as  everybody  else 
does.  A  more  delightful  New  England  kitchen 
could  scarcely  be  imagined.  This  was  the  only 
place  where  Sailor  Ben  felt  at  home  —  and  no 
wonder,  for  how  could  any  room  have  a  more  in- 
viting fireplace  ?  Here  Tom  sought  refuge  when 
oppressed  by  the  atmosphere  of  the  sitting-room 
and  found  relief  in  Kitty  Collins's  funny  Irish 
stories.  And  here  Sailor  Ben  gathered  the  whole 
family  around  the  table  while  he  spun  his  yarn 
"all  about  a  man  as  has  made  a  fool  of  his- 
self." 

This  is  the  delightful  fact  about  the  Nutter 
house  of  to-day  —  every  room  brings  back  memo- 
ries of  Tom  Bailey,  Grandfather  Nutter,  Aunt 
Abigail,  Kitty  Collins,  and  Sailor  Ben.  The  fur- 
nishings are  so  perfect  that  we  should  not  have 
been  surprised  if  any  one  of  these  old  friends 
had  suddenly  confronted  us.  Our  minds  were  con- 
centrated upon  their  personalities  and  upon  "  The 
Story  of  a  Bad  Boy."  The  illusion  is  so  complete 
that  we  scarcely  gave  a  thought  to  the  author 
of  the  tale  until  we  entered  the  Memorial  build- 

214 


LANDMARKS   OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

ing  at  the  rear.  Suddenly  Tom  Bailey  vanished 
and  with  him  all  the  other  ghosts  of  the  old 
house.  We  stood  in  the  presence  of  Thomas 
Bailey  Aldrich,  the  poet,  the  writer  of  a  multi- 
tude of  delightful  tales,  and  the  man  of  genial 
personality.  Here,  in  a  single  large  room,  are 
brought  together  the  priceless  autographs,  manu- 
scripts, first  editions,  and  pictures  which  Aldrich 
had  found  pleasure  in  collecting.  Here  is  the 
little  table  on  which  he  wrote  "  The  Story  of  a 
Bad  Boy/'  and  there  are  cases  containing  count- 
less presents,  trophies,  and  expressions  of  regard 
from  his  friends.  The  walls  are  hung  with  manu- 
scripts, framed  in  connection  with  portraits  of 
their  distinguished  writers,  as  Aldrich  loved  to 
have  them.  At  the  end  of  the  room  is  a  hand- 
some oil  painting  of  Aldrich  himself.  Everything 
tends  to  suggest  the  exquisite  taste  of  the  man, 
his  genial  nature,  his  varied  attainments,  and  the 
extent  of  his  wide  circle  of  distinguished  friends. 
Above  all,  the  room  speaks  in  eloquent  terms  of 
the  affectionate  loyalty  to  his  memory  that  has  led 
his  family  to  bring  together  the  material  for  a 
memorial  unsurpassed  in  variety  of  interest  and 
tasteful  arrangement  of  details. 

Even  the  garden  in  the  rear  of  the  house  is 
made  to  sing  its  song  in  memory  of  Aldrich,  for 
here  are  growing  all  the  flowers  mentioned  in 
his  poetry,  blending  their  perfumes  and  uniting 
harmoniously  their  richness  of  color  in  one 

215 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

graceful  tribute  to  the  beauty  and  delicacy  of 
his  verse. 

After  living  over  again  the  scenes  of  "  The 
Story  of  a  Bad  Boy/'  in  so  far  as  they  were  sug- 
gested by  the  Nutter  house,  it  was  only  natural 
that  we  should  wish  to  stroll  about  the  "  Old 
Town  by  the  Sea"  in  the  hope  of  identifying 
some  of  the  out-of-door  scenes  of  "  young  Bai- 
ley's "  exploits.  The  first  house  on  the  right,  as 
we  walked  toward  the  river,  is  the  William  Pitt 
Tavern.  In  the  early  days  of  the  Revolution  it 
was  an  aristocratic  hotel,  much  frequented  by 
the  Tories,  and  kept  by  a  certain  astute  landlord 
named  John  Stavers.  He  had  formerly  kept  a 
tavern  on  State  Street,  known  as  the  "  Earl  of 
Halifax,"  and  when  it  became  necessary  to  move 
to  the  newer  house  in  Court  Street,  he  carried 
sign  and  all  with  him.  But  the  patriots,  whose 
resort  was  the  old  Bell  Tavern,  kept  a  jealous 
eye  on  the  Earl  of  Halifax,  and  in  1777  attacked 
it,  seriously  damaging  the  building.  Master 
Stavers,  being  at  heart  neither  Tory  nor  patriot, 
but  primarily  an  innkeeper,  promptly  changed 
both  his  politics  and  his  sign.  The  latter  be- 
came "  William  Pitt,"  in  honor  of  the  colonists' 
English  friend  and  supporter,  and  the  thrifty 
landlord  began  to  entertain  the  leaders  of  the 
Revolution  at  his  house.  John  Hancock,  Elbridge 
Gerry,  and  Edward  Rutledge  decorated  with  their 
autographs  the  pages  of  his  register  as  well  as  the 

216 


LANDMARKS  OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

Declaration  of  Independence.  General  Knox  was 
a  frequent  visitor  and  Lafayette  came  there  in 
1882.  Moreover,  the  old  tavern  has  had  the  honor 
of  entertaining  the  last  of  the  French  kings,  Louis 
Philippe,  who  came  there  with  his  two  brothers 
during  the  French  Revolution,  and  the  first 
American  President,  who  was  a  guest  in  1789. 

All  this  glory  had  long  since  departed  in  Aid- 
rich's  day,  and  his  chief  interest  in  the  old  tavern 
lay  in  the  fact  that  he  could  climb  up  the  dingy 
stairs  to  the  top  floor  and  listen  for  hours  to  the 
stories  of  the  olden  times,  as  told  by  Dame  Joce- 
lyn,  with  whom,  as  she  asserted,  Washington  had 
flirted  just  a  little,  though  in  a  "stately  and 
highly  finished  manner  " ! 

Continuing  down  the  street,  we  found  the 
empty  old  warehouses  and  rotting  wharves  among 
which  Aldrich  spent  so  many  hours  of  his  boy- 
hood, and  we  took  a  picture  of  one  old  crumbling 
dock,  which  we  felt  sure  must  have  been  very 
like  the  one  upon  which  the  boys  of  the  River- 
mouth  Centipedes  fired  a  broadside  from  "  Bai- 
ley's Battery."  The  old  abandoned  guns,  twelve 
in  all,  were  cleaned  out,  loaded,  provided  with 
fuses,  and  set  off  mysteriously  at  midnight,  much 
to  the  astonishment  of  the  Rivermouthians,  who 
thought  the  town  was  being  bombarded  or  that 
the  end  of  the  world  had  come.  The  old  wharf 
possessed  a  singular  fascination  for  me  because 
I  still  recall  how  vividly  the  incident  impressed 

217 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

me  in  my  boyhood  and  how  fervently  I  envied 
Tom  Bailey  his  unusual  opportunities.  Nor  did 
it  mar  my  enjoyment  in  the  least  to  learn  that 
the  wharf  I  was  looking  at  was  not  the  right 
place,  the  real  one,  where  the  guns  were  stored, 
having  been  removed  some  time  ago.  It  was  near 
the  Point  of  Graves,  the  spot  where  the  boys 
went  in  bathing  and  where  Binny  Wallace's  body 
was  washed  ashore  after  the  ill-fated  cruise  of  the 
Dolphin.  The  real  Binny,  by  the  way,  was  not 
drowned  at  all.  The  author,  here,  deviated  from 
the  facts  to  make  his  story  more  dramatic. 

Point  of  Graves  takes  its  name  from  the  old 
burying-ground,  occupying  a  triangular  space 
near  the  river's  edge.  It  has  quaint  old  tomb- 
stones dating  back  as  far  as  1682,  with  curious 
epitaphs,  skulls,  and  cherubs  carved  upon  them. 
Here  is  the  place  where  Tom  Bailey,  disappointed 
in  love  and  determined  to  become  "  a  blighted 
being,"  used  to  lie  in  the  long  grass,  speculating 
on  "the  advantages  and  disadvantages  of  being 
a  cherub  "  —  the  disadvantages  being  that  the 
cherub,  having  only  a  head  and  wings,  could  not 
sit  down  when  he  was  tired  and  could  not  pos- 
sess trousers  pockets ! 

A  stroll  through  this  part  of  the  town,  which 
in  olden  times  was  the  center  of  its  trade  and 
commerce,  is  like  walking  through  some  of  the 
old  English  villages.  Every  house,  nearly,  has  its 
history,  and  I  fancy  the  streets  have  not  greatly 

218 


LANDMARKS  OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

changed  their  appearance  since  the  days  of  Aid- 
rich's  boyhood. 

On  the  corner  of  Fleet  and  State  Streets  we 
came  to  an  old  house,  which  has  an  interesting 
connection  with  our  story.  A  part  of  it  was  oc- 
cupied as  a  candy  store  for  nearly  sixty  years. 
On  the  Fourth  of  July,  after  Tom  had  treated 
the  boys  to  root-beer,  a  single  glass  of  which 
"insured  an  uninterrupted  pain  for  twenty-four 
hours,"  they  came  here  for  ice-cream.  It  is  said 
that  one  of  the  ringleaders  subsequently  cele- 
brated every  third  of  July,  until  his  death,  by 
eating  ice-cream  in  the  same  room.  The  story 
was  based  upon  an  incident  that  really  happened 
in  1847,  in  which,  of  course,  Aldrich  could  have 
had  no  part,  as  he  was  not  then  living  in  Ports- 
mouth. I  am  inclined  to  doubt  whether  the  real 
event  was  half  so  delightful  as  the  tale  which 
Aldrich  tells,  of  the  twelve  sixpenny  ice-creams, 
"  strawberry  and  verneller  mixed,"  and  how  poor 
Tom  was  left  to  pay  for  the  whole  crowd,  who 
slipped  out  of  the  window  while  he  was  in  an- 
other room  ordering  more  cream! 

No  doubt  we  might  have  coupled  many  other 
places  in  Portsmouth  with  "  The  Story  of  a  Bad 
Boy  "  —  for  it  is  a  very  real  story,  though  not  to 
be  taken  literally  in  every  detail.  It  is  interesting 
to  think  of  the  town,  also,  as  the  scene  of  "  Pru- 
dence Palfrey."  The  old  Bell  Tavern,  where  Mr. 
Dillingham  boarded,  ceased  to  exist  as  a  public 

219 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

house  in  1852  and  was  destroyed  by  fire  fifteen 
years  later.  It  is  pleasant  also  to  follow  Aldrich 
in  a  walk  through  the  streets,  with  a  copy  of 
"  An  Old  Town  by  the  Sea "  for  a  guide,  and 
note  all  the  fine  old  houses  he  so  charmingly 
describes. 

But  we  must  not  devote  our  entire  time  to 
Aldrich,  for  an  older  poet  has  a  slight  claim  to 
our  attention.  The  opening  scene  of  Longfel- 
low's "Lady  Wentworth,"  in  the  "Tales  of  a 
Wayside  Inn,"  is  laid  in  State  Street. 

"  One  hundred  years  ago  and  something  more, 
In  Queen  Street,  Portsmouth,  at  her  tavern  door,"  — 

is  the  way  the  poem  opens.  Queen  Street  was  the 
old  name  for  State  Street,  and  the  tavern  was  the 
old  Earl  of  Halifax  before  Master  Stavers  carried 
the  sign  over  to  the  new  house  in  Court  Street. 
It  has  long  since  disappeared.  It  was  before  this 
house  that  the  barefooted  and  ragged  little 
beauty,  Martha  Hilton,  was  rebuked  by  Dame 
Stavers  for  appearing  on  the  street  half-dressed 
and  looking  so  shabby,  to  which  she  quickly 
replied :  — 

"  No  matter  how  I  look :  I  yet  shall  ride 
In  my  own  chariot,  ma'am." 

The  house  to  which  she  did  drive  in  her  own 
chariot,  many  a  time  in  later  days,  as  the  wife  of 
Governor  Wentworth,  is  one  of  the  most  pleas- 
antly situated  of  all  the  houses  in  Portsmouth. 

220 


LANDMARKS  OP  NEW  ENGLAND 

It  is  at  Little  Harbor,  on  one  of  the  many  penin- 
sulas that  jut  out  into  the  Piscataqua,  below  the 
town,  and  commands  a  fine  view  of  the  beautiful 
river  and  its  many  islands.  The  house  is  a  large 
wooden  building  containing  forty-five  rooms, 
though  originally  it  had  fifty-two.  Architectur- 
ally it  is  unattractive,  external  beauty  of  design 
having  been  sacrificed  to  utility. 

"  Within,  unwonted  splendors  met  the  eye, 
Panels  and  floors  of  oak,  and  tapestry  ; 
Carved  chimney  pieces,  where  on  brazen  dogs 
Reveled  and  roared  the  Christmas  fires  of  logs." 

The  historic  building,  with  its  great  Chamber 
where  the  Governor  and  his  Council  met  for 
their  deliberations,  still  remains  in  almost  its 
original  state. 

One  could  spend  many  days  in  Portsmouth  in- 
vestigating its  connection  with  the  history  of  the 
country,  from  the  early  explorations  in  1603  of 
Martin  Pring  and  the  visit  in  1614  of  Captain 
John  Smith,  down  through  the  settlements  of 
David  Thomson  and  Captain  John  Mason,  the 
Indian  wars  and  massacres,  the  incidents  of  the 
Revolution,  and  the  rise  and  fall  of  the  town's 
commerce,  and  find  plenty  of  old  landmarks  to 
give  zest  to  the  pursuit.  But  our  search,  at  pres- 
ent, is  for  literary  landmarks.  We,  therefore, 
take  passage  on  the  little  steamer  that  plies  to 
and  from  the  Isles  of  Shoals  for  a  pilgrimage 
to  the  Island  Garden  of  Celia  Thaxter. 

221 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 
IV 

THE    ISLES    OF    SHOALS 

IT  is  a  pleasant  sail  down  the  Piscataqua,  past 
the  old  "  slumberous  "  wharves,  where  "  the  sun- 
shine seems  to  lie  a  foot  deep  in  the  planks  " ; 
past  the  long  bridges ;  the  numerous  clusters  of 
islands ;  the  white  sails  of  the  yacht  club,  hover- 
ing like  gulls  about  the  huge  battleships,  moored 
to  the  docks  of  the  navy  yard ;  the  ruins  of  Fort 
Constitution,  formerly  Fort  William  and  Mary, 
famed  in  history,  but  more  interesting  to  us  as 
the  place  where  Prudence  Palfrey  came  near  sur- 
rendering her  heart  to  the  infamous  Dillingham ; 
the  ancient  town  of  Newcastle  with  its  old-fash- 
ioned dwellings  mingling  with  pretty  new  sum- 
mer cottages,  the  whole  dominated  by  the  white 
walls  of  a  huge  hotel ;  Kittery  Point,  birthplace 
of  Sir  William  Pepperell,  the  famous  Governor 
and  Indian  fighter :  and  at  last,  the  broad  At- 
lantic, stretching  to  the  eastward  with  nothing  to 
obstruct  the  view  save  a  few  tiny  specks,  dimly 
visible  in  the  distance.  These  are  the  Isles  of 
Shoals,  looking  so  small  that  they  seem  to  be 
only  rocks  jutting  a  few  feet  above  the  sea,  upon 
which  it  would  be  impossible  to  land. 

As  we  approach  Appledore,  the  islands  still  seem 
to  be  only  a  cluster  of  barren  rocks,  with  a  few 
scattered  buildings.  The  charm  which  they  un- 
222 


LANDMARKS  OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

doubtedly  exert  upon  those  who  come  year  after 
year  does  not  immediately  manifest  itself  to  the 
stranger.  He  must  spend  a  night  there,  breath- 
ing the  pure  sea  air,  watching  in  the  early  evening 
the  glistening  lights  on  the  far-off  shore,  and 
finally  falling  asleep  to  dream  that  he  is  in  mid- 
ocean,  on  one  of  the  steadiest  of  steamers,  enjoy- 
ing the  luxury  of  absolute  rest,  for  which  there 
is  no  better  prescription  than  an  ocean  voyage. 
In  the  morning,  he  must  walk  around  the  island 
—  it  can  be  done  in  an  hour  or  two  —  threading 
the  narrow  paths  through  the  huckleberry  bushes 
and  picking  his  way  over  the  high  rocks  that 
present  their  front  to  the  full  force  of  the  waves, 
on  the  side  of  Appledore  that  faces  the  sea. 
Here  he  will  see  artists  spreading  their  easels  and 
canvases  for  a  day's  work  and  less  busy  people 
settling  down  in  various  shady  nooks,  to  read,  to 
chat,  to  knit,  to  dream. 

To  get  the  real  spirit  of  the  islands  it  is  advi- 
sable to  find  one  of  these  quiet  nooks  and  read 
Celia  Thaxter's  "  Among  the  Isles  of  Shoals,"  a 
book  of  sketches  for  which  the  author  needlessly 
apologizes,  but  of  which  Mrs.  Annie  Fields  says, 
"  She  portrays,  in  a  prose  which  for  beauty  and 
wealth  of  diction  has  few  rivals,  the  unfolding 
of  sky  and  sea  and  solitude  and  untrammeled 
freedom,  such  as  have  been  almost  unknown  to 
civilized  humanity  in  any  age  of  the  world." 
Celia  Thaxter  is  herself  the  Spirit  of  the  Isles  of 

223 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

Shoals,  and  if  we  are  to  know  and  love  them,  we 
must  take  her  as  our  guide.  She  will  he  found 
an  efficient  one  and  there  is  no  other. 

With  this  purpose  in  mind,  we  began  our  tour 
of  the  islands,  book  in  hand,  stopping  first  at 
the  cottage  of  Mrs.  Thaxter.  One  room  is  main- 
tained somewhat  as  she  left  it,  with  every  square 
foot  of  wall  space  covered  by  her  pictures.  But 
the  flower-garden  is  sadly  neglected.  Only  the 
vines  that  still  clamber  over  the  porch,  and  a 
few  hollyhocks  that  stubbornly  refuse  to  die, 
remain  to  suggest  the  dooryard  where  the  garden 
flowers  used  to  "  fairly  run  mad  with  color." 
The  salt  air  and  some  peculiar  richness  of  the  soil 
seem  to  impart  unusual  brilliancy  to  the  blossoms 
and  strength  to  the  roots  of  all  kinds  of  flowers, 
whether  wild  or  cultivated.  Celia  Thaxter  was 
one  of  those  people  for  whom  flowers  will  grow. 
They  responded  with  blushing  enthusiasm  to  the 
constant  manifestations  of  her  love  and  tender 
care.  Flowers  have  a  great  deal  of  humanity  about 
them  after  all.  They  refuse  to  display  their  real 
luxuriance  for  cold,  careless,  or  indifferent  people, 
just  as  babies  and  dogs  know  how  to  distinguish 
between  those  who  love  them  and  those  who  love 
only  themselves. 

"  More  dear  to  me  than  words  can  tell 
Was  every  cup  and  spray  and  leaf ; 
Too  perfect  for  a  life  so  brief 
Seemed  every  star  and  bud  and  bell." 

224 


LANDMARKS  OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

Celia  Thaxter  loved  her  flowers  with  a  devo- 
tion born  of  the  hours  of  solitude  when  they  were 
her  sole  companions.  "  The  little  spot  of  earth  on 
which  they  grow  is  like  a  mass  of  jewels.  Who 
shall  describe  the  pansies,  richly  streaked  with 
burning  gold;  the  dark  velvet  coreopsis  and  the 
nasturtiums;  the  larkspurs,  blue  and  brilliant  as 
lapis-lazuli ;  the  ' ardent  marigolds'  that  flame 
like  mimic  suns  ?  The  sweet  peas  are  of  a  deep, 
bright  rose-color,  and  their  odor  is  like  rich  wine, 
too  sweet  almost  to  be  borne,  except  when  the 
pure  fragrance  of  mignonette  is  added,  —  such 
mignonette  as  never  grows  on  shore.  Why  should 
the  poppies  blaze  in  such  imperial  scarlet?  What 
quality  is  hidden  in  this  thin  soil,  which  so  trans- 
figures all  the  familiar  flowers  with  fresh  beauty  ?  " 

Unfortunately,  the  mysterious  quality  hidden 
in  the  soil,  assisted  by  the  warm  sunshine  and  the 
salt  air,  with  all  their  powers  could  not  maintain 
the  island  garden  after  the  loving  hands  of  its 
owner  were  withdrawn,  and  the  little  inclosure  is 
now  a  mass  of  weeds. 

Celia  Laighton  was  brought  to  the  Isles  of 
Shoals  as  a  child  of  five,  and  lived  with  her  pa- 
rents in  a  little  cottage  on  White  Island  where 
her  father  was  the  keeper  of  the  lighthouse.  She 
grew  to  womanhood  in  the  companionship  of  the 
rocks,  the  spray  of  the  ocean,  the  seaweeds,  the 
shells  and  the  miniature  wild  life  she  discovered 
among  them,  the  tiny  wild  flowers  which  her 

225 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

sharp  young  eyes  could  find  in  the  most  secret 
crannies,  and  the  marigolds,  "rich  in  color  as 
barbaric  gold,"  which  she  early  learned  to  culti- 
vate in  "a  scrap  of  garden  literally  not  more  than 
a  yard  square."  She  shouted  a  friendly  greeting  to 
the  noisy  gulls  and  kittiwakes  that  fluttered  over- 
head, chased  the  sandpipers  along  the  gravelly 
beach,  made  friends  and  neighbors  of  the  crabs, 
the  sea-spiders  and  land-spiders,  the  sea-urchins, 
the  grasshoppers  and  crickets,  and  set  in  motion 
armies  of  sandhoppers,  that  jumped  away  like  tiny 
kangaroos  when  she  lifted  the  stranded  seaweed. 
And  then  the  birds  came  to  see  her.  The  swal- 
lows gathered  fearlessly  upon  the  window-sills 
and  built  their  nests  in  the  eaves,  seeming  to 
know  that  the  loving  eyes  watching  their  move- 
ments could  mean  no  evil.  Now  and  then  a  bob- 
olink, an  oriole,  or  a  scarlet  tanager  would  be 
seen.  The  song  sparrows  came  in  flocks  to  be 
fed  every  morning.  With  them,  at  times,  came 
robins  and  blackbirds,  and  occasionally  yellow- 
birds  and  kingbirds.  Sometimes,  in  hazy  weather, 
they  would  fly  against  the  glass  of  the  lighthouse 
with  fatal  results.  "  Many  a  May  morning,"  says 
Mrs.  Thaxter,  "  have  I  wandered  about  the  rock 
at  the  foot  of  the  tower  mourning  over  a  little 
apron  brimful  of  sparrows,  swallows,  thrushes, 
robins,  fire- winged  blackbirds,  many-colored  yel- 
lowbirds,  nuthatches,  catbirds,  even  the  purple 
finch  and  scarlet  tanager  and  golden  oriole,  and 
226 


LANDMARKS  OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

many  more  beside  —  enough  to  break  the  heart 
of  a  small  child  to  think  of." 

It  is  no  wonder  that  such  a  sympathetic  soul 
could  even  summon  the  birds  to  keep  her  com- 
pany —  as  she  frequently  did  with  the  loons.  "  I 
learned  to  imitate  their  different  cries ;  they  are 
wonderful !  At  one  time  the  loon  language  was 
so  familiar  that  I  could  almost  always  summon 
a  considerable  flock  by  going  down  to  the  water 
and  assuming  the  neighborly  and  conversational 
tone  which  they  generally  use :  after  calling  a 
few  minutes,  first  a  far-off  voice  responded,  then 
other  voices  answered  him,  and  when  this  was 
kept  up  a  while,  half  a  dozen  birds  would  come 
sailing  in.  It  was  the  most  delightful  little  party 
imaginable ;  so  comical  were  they  that  it  was  im- 
possible not  to  laugh  aloud." 

To  her  love  of  birds  and  flowers,  Mrs.  Thaxter 
added  a  love  of  the  sea  itself,  finding  delight 
equally  in  the  sparkle  of  the  calm  waves  of  sum- 
mer or  the  wild  beating  of  the  surf  in  winter. 
She  developed  a  marvelous  ear  for  the  music  of 
the  sea  —  something  akin  to  that  which  enables 
John  Burroughs  to  name  a  bird  correctly  from 
its  notes,  even  when  the  songster  is  trying  to 
imitate  the  call  of  another  bird  as  the  little  im- 
postors sometimes  do.  She  says  :  "  Who  shall 
describe  that  wonderful  voice  of  the  sea  among 
the  rocks,  to  me  the  most  suggestive  of  all  the 
sounds  in  nature?  Each  island,  every  isolated 

227 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

rock,  has  its  own  peculiar  note,  and  ears  made  deli- 
cate by  listening,  in  great  and  frequent  peril,  can 
distinguish  the  bearings  of  each  in  a  dense  fog." 

Equally  well  did  she  know  humanity.  The 
daily  life  of  the  fishermen,  the  kind  and  quan- 
tity of  the  fish  they  caught,  the  adventures  they 
experienced,  the  stories  they  told,  the  hardships 
they  endured,  the  little  domestic  tragedies  that 
now  and  then  took  place  in  their  humble  cot* 
tages,  the  sufferings  from  illness  or  accident, 
were  all  matters  of  everyday  knowledge  to  her 
and  enlisted  her  profound  sympathy. 

Everything  in  nature  appealed  to  her  —  the 
sea  and  sky,  the  sunrise  and  the  sunset,  the 
winds  and  storms,  the  birds  and  flowers,  the  but- 
terflies and  insects,  the  seashells  and  kelp,  the 
fishes  and  all  the  lower  forms  of  life  —  all  were 
objects  of  careful  observation  in  which  she  took 
delight ;  and  to  these  must  be  added  a  deep  in- 
terest in  humanity,  particularly  of  the  kind  which 
she  met  in  fishermen's  cottages,  where  her  good 
common  sense  and  knowledge  of  simple  remedies 
enabled  her  to  render,  again  and  again,  a  serv- 
ice in  time  of  need  when  no  other  assistance 
could  be  obtained. 

Such  was  the  unique  character  whose  spirit 
dominates  the  islands  even  to-day,  —  a  lover  of 
nature  worthy  to  stand  with  Gilbert  White, 
Thoreau,  or  Burroughs,  a  poet,  an  artist,  a 
friendly  neighbor,  and  a  womanly  woman. 
228 


LANDMARKS  OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

It  was  a  part  of  our  good  fortune  to  have  the 
actual  guidance  in  our  tour  of  the  islands  of 
the  only  surviving  brother  of  Mrs.  Thaxter,  Mr. 
Oscar  Laighton.  In  his  little  motor  boat  he  took 
us  to  the  tiny  island  known  as  Londoners,  where 
for  many  winters  he  was  the  sole  inhabitant. 
Although  advancing  years  have  now  made  it 
inexpedient  for  him  to  live  in  solitude,  the  little 
cottage  still  remains  ready  for  occupancy  at  any 
moment.  We  stepped  inside  expecting  to  see,  in 
so  desolate  a  spot,  only  such  rude  furnishings 
as  might  be  found  in  some  mountain  cabin  or 
hunter's  lodge.  To  our  astonishment  we  found 
it  a  veritable  little  bower,  a  model  of  neatness 
and  order,  and  every  room,  including  the  kitchen, 
filled  with  well-chosen  pictures  and  books,  as 
though  some  dainty  fairy,  of  literary  tastes,  had 
planned  it  for  her  permanent  abode.  Among  the 
highly  prized  ornaments  were  many  pieces  of 
china,  painted  by  Mrs.  Thaxter.  To  our  minds, 
the  most  valuable  article  in  the  house  —  valua- 
ble because  of  the  lesson  it  teaches  —  is  a  type- 
written card,  hanging  conspicuously  over  the 
kitchen  stove,  with  this  cordial  greeting  to  the 
uninvited  guest:  — 

"  Welcome  to  any  one  entering  this  house  in  ship- 
wreck or  trouble.  You  will  find  matches  in  the  box 
on  the  mantel.  The  key  to  the  wood-house  is  in  this 
box.  Start  a  fire  in  the  stove  and  make  yourself  com- 
fortable. There  are  some  cans  of  food  on  shelf  in  the 

229 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

pantry.  Blankets  will  be  found  in  the  chamber  on 
lower  floor.  There  is  a  dory  ready  to  launch  in  the 
boat-house." 

Three  times  have  shipwrecked  men  entered  the 
house  and  taken  advantage  of  this  kindly  wel- 
come. 

Our  next  visit  was  to  White  Island,  where, 
after  much  difficulty  in  getting  ashore,  we 
climbed  to  the  top  of  the  lighthouse.  This  is  a 
very  different  structure  from  the  old  wooden 
building  of  Celia  Thaxter's  childhood  and  only 
a  small  part  of  the  original  dwelling  remains. 
But  the  landing  is  very  much  as  she  describes 
it.  "Two  long  and  very  solid  timbers  about 
three  feet  apart  are  laid  from  the  bo^t-house  to 
low-water  mark,  and  between  those  timbers  the 
boat's  bow  must  be  accurately  steered.  .  .  . 
Safely  lodged  in  the  slip,  as  it  is  called,  she  is 
drawn  up  into  the  boat-house  by  a  capstan,  and 
fastened  securely."  Our  boat  was  not  drawn  up, 
and  we  had  to  walk  up  the  steep,  slippery  planks 
—  with  what  success  I  shall  not  attempt  to  de- 
scribe. Here,  at  night,  the  little  Celia  used  to 
sit,  with  a  lantern  at  her  feet,  waiting  in  the 
darkness,  without  fear,  for  the  arrival  of  her 
father's  boat,  knowing  that  the  "  little  star  was 
watched  for,  and  that  the  safety  of  the  boat  de- 
pended in  a  great  measure  upon  it." 

Haley's  Island,  or  "  Smutty  Nose,"  as  it  was 
long  ago  dubbed  by  the  sailors  because  of  its  long 
230 


LANDMARKS  OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

projecting  point  of  black  rocks,  lies  between  Ap- 
pledore  and  Star  Island.  Of  the  two  houses  now 
remaining,  one  is  the  original  cottage  of  Samuel 
Haley,  an  energetic  and  useful  citizen,  who  once 
owned  the  island.  Nearby  fourteen  rude  and 
neglected  graves  tell  a  pathetic  tale.  The  Spanish 
ship  Sagunto  was  wrecked  on  Smutty  Nose,  dur- 
ing a  severe  snowstorm  on  a  January  night.  The 
shipwrecked  sailors  saw  the  light  in  Haley's  cot- 
tage and  crept  toward  it,  benumbed  with  cold 
and  overcome  with  the  horror  and  fatigue  of 
their  experience.  Two  reached  the  stone  wall  in 
front  of  the  house,  but  were  too  weak  to  climb 
over,  and  their  bodies  were  discovered  the  next 
morning,  frozen  to  the  stones.  Twelve  other 
bodies  were  found  scattered  about  the  island. 
How  gladly  the  old  man  would  have  given  these 
poor  sailors  the  warmth  and  comfort  of  his  home 
could  he  have  known  the  tragedy  that  was  hap- 
pening while  he  slept  soundly  only  a  few  yards 
away  ! 

Star  Island,  once  the  site  of  the  village  of 
Gosport,  was  in  early  days  the  most  important  of 
the  group.  Before  the  Revolution  a  settlement 
of  from  three  to  six  hundred  people  carried  on 
the  fisheries  of  the  island,  catching  yearly  three 
or  four  thousand  quintals  of  fish.  All  this  busi- 
ness is  now  a  thing  of  the  past.  The  great  shoals 
of  mackerel  and  herring,  from  which  the  islands 
took  their  name,  have  disappeared  —  driven  away 

231 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

or  killed  by  the  steam  trawlers.  The  old  families 
departed  long  since,  and  new  ones  have  never 
come  to  take  their  places,  save  a  few  lobster  fish- 
ermen, who  with  difficulty  eke  out  a  bare  living. 
A  quaint  little  church  of  stone  is  perched  upon 
the  highest  rocks  of  Star  Island,  but  I  fear  the 
attendance  is  small,  even  in  the  summer  time. 

We  found  our  way  back  to  Appledore,  con- 
tent to  spend  the  remaining  days  of  our  visit  on 
this  the  largest  and  most  inviting  of  the  group. 

"  A  common  island,  you  will  say  ; 
But  stay  a  moment ;  only  climb 
Up  to  the  highest  rock  of  the  isle, 
Stand  there  alone  for  a  little  while, 
And  with  gentle  approaches  it  grows  sublime, 
Dilating  slowly  as  you  win 
A  sense  from  the  silence  to  take  it  in." 

Lowell  was  right.  The  greatest  charm  of  the 
islands  is  felt  when  you  stand  on  "  the  highest 
rock  of  the  isle,"  looking  out  upon  the  ever 
sparkling  sea  that  stretches 

"  Eastward  as  far  as  the  eye  can  see  — 
Still  Eastward,  eastward,  endlessly  "  ; 

and  feeling  the  restful  quietude  of  the  spot.  I 
fancy  Celia  Thaxter  stood  upon  this  rock  when 
she  sang — 

"  O  Earth !  thy  summer  song  of  joy  may  soar 
Ringing  to  heaven  in  triumph.  I  but  crave 
The  sad,  caressing  murmur  of  the  wave 
That  breaks  in  tender  music  on  the  shore." 


VIII 
A  DAY  WITH  JOHN  BUKKOUGHS 


VIII 
A  DAY  WITH  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

OH,  everybody  here  calls  him  Uncle  John," 
was  the  quick  reply  to  one  of  my  queries 
of  the  man  who  drove  me  to  the  country  house  of 
John  Burroughs,  near  Roxbury,  New  York.  He 
had  been  saying  many  pleasant  things  about 
the  distinguished  naturalist,  dwelling  particularly 
upon  his  kind  heart  and  genial  nature.  I  noticed 
that  he  never  referred  to  him  as  "  Dr."  Bur- 
roughs, nor  "Mr."  Burroughs,  nor  even  as  " Bur- 
roughs," but  always  as  "  John  "  or  "  good  old 
John,"  or  most  often, "  Uncle  John."  So  I  asked 
by  what  name  the  people  called  him,  and  the 
answer  seemed  to  me  the  most  sincere  compli- 
ment that  could  have  been  paid. 

When  a  man  has  received  many  honorary  de- 
grees which  the  great  universities  have  felt  proud 
to  confer,  it  is  an  indication  that  those  most  com- 
petent to  judge  have  appreciated  his  intellectual 
attainments  or  public  services,  or  both.  When 
the  people  of  his  native  village  bestow  upon  him 
the  title  of  "  Uncle,"  it  is  an  indication  that  the 
achievement  of  fame  has  not  eclipsed  the  lovable 
qualities  in  his  character  nor  dimmed  the  affec- 
tionate regard  of  the  neighbors  who  have  learned 

235 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

to  know  him  as  a  man.  There  is  a  certain  friend- 
liness implied  in  the  title  of  "  Uncle,"  while  it 
also  suggests  respect.  If  you  live  in  a  small  town 
you  call  everybody  by  his  first  name.  But  one 
of  your  number  becomes  famous.  To  call  him 
"  John  "  seems  too  familiar.  It  implies  that  you 
do  not  properly  appreciate  his  attainments.  To 
call  him  "  Mister  "  or  "  Doctor  "  seems  to  make 
a  stranger  of  him,  and  you  would  not  for  the 
world  admit  that  he  is  not  still  your  friend. 
"Uncle"  is  often  a  happy  compromise,  parti- 
cularly if  he  still  retains  the  neighborly  qualities 
of  his  less  distinguished  years. 

I  do  not  know  that  the  people  of  Roxbury 
ever  followed  this  line  of  reasoning,  but  it  does 
seem  quite  appropriate  that  they  should  call 
their  most  distinguished  fellow  citizen  "  Uncle 
John."  He  was  born  on  a  farm  near  this  little 
village  in  the  Catskills  on  the  3d  of  April,  1837, 
in  the  very  time  of  the  return  of  the  birds.  Per- 
haps this  is  why  he  is  so  fond  of  them  and  par- 
ticularly of  Robin  Redbreast,  that  fine  old-fash* 
ioned  democrat,  who  is  one  of  his  prime  favorites. 
He  spent  his  boyhood  here,  and  now,  in  the 
fullness  of  his  years,  quietly  returns  each  sum- 
mer to  the  old  familiar  haunts,  living  the  same 
simple  life  as  of  yore,  except  that  the  pen  is  now 
his  tool  instead  of  the  farming  implements. 

The  little  red  schoolhouse,  where  Burroughs 
and  Jay  Gould  went  to  school  together,  may  still 

236 


A  DAY  WITH  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

be  seen  in  the  valley,  standing  in  the  open  coun- 
try with  one  of  those  rounded  hill-tops  in  the 
background  which  form  the  characteristic  feature 
of  the  Catskills.  Near  by  is  the  Gould  birthplace, 
now  a  comfortable-looking  farmhouse,  glistening 
with  a  fresh  coat  of  white  paint.  "  Take  away 
the  porch  and  the  back  extension,  and  the  top 
story  and  the  paint,"  said  my  driver,  "and  you 
will  have  the  original  '  birthplace.' '  He  said 
that  when  he  first  began  the  livery  business  in 
Roxbury  many  people  came  to  see  the  birthplace 
of  Jay  Gould,  but  no  one  mentioned  Burroughs. 
Now  it  is  just  the  other  way,  and  the  number  of 
visitors  increases  yearly,  all  anxious  to  see  the 
home  of  the  famous  philosopher.  Yet  these  two 
men,  one  of  whom  seems  to  have  belonged  to 
the  generations  of  the  past  while  the  other  is  a 
part  of  the  ever -living  present,  were  boys  to- 
gether in  the  same  schoolhouse  more  than  sixty 
years  ago. 

As  my  conveyance  drew  up  to  the  door,  Mr. 
Burroughs  came  out  with  a  hearty  welcome.  He 
was  alone,  for  during  the  summer,  when  he  retires 
to  this  place  for  work,  he  prefers  to  do  his  own 
housekeeping  in  his  own  way.  "I  am  a  good 
cook,"  said  he,  "  but  a  poor  housekeeper."  I  did 
not  agree  with  the  latter  part  of  the  statement,  for 
as  I  looked  around  I  thought  he  had  about  all 
he  needed  and  everything  was  clean.  Moreover, 
things  were  where  he  could  get  at  them,  and 

237 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

from  a  man's  point  of  view  what  better  house- 
keeping could  anybody  want  ? 

The  house  which  he  now  occupies  is  a  plain- 
looking  farmhouse,  built  in  1869  by  Mr.  Bur- 
roughs's  elder  brother.  Its  most  distinctive  fea- 
ture is  the  rustic  porch,  a  recent  addition,  which 
serves  the  purposes  of  living-room,  library,  and 
bedroom.  Mr.  Burroughs  is  a  believer  in  fresh 
air  and  during  the  summer  likes  to  sleep  out  of 
doors.  He  has  a  rustic  table,  covered  with  favor- 
ite books.  When  he  is  not  at  work,  he  likes  to 
sit  on  the  porch  and  enjoy  what  he  calls  "  the 
peace  of  the  hills."  Across  the  road  there  is  a 
field,  broad  and  long  and  crossed  by  numerous 
stone  walls.  In  the  distance  are  the  hills  of  his 
well-loved  Catskills,  their  smoothly  undulating 
lines  giving  a  sense  of  repose.  At  the  right  of 
the  house  I  noticed  a  small  patch  of  green  corn, 
in  front  of  which  were  some  rambling  cucumber 
vines.  In  the  rear  and  at  the  left  were  a  few  old 
apple  trees,  and  farther  back,  capping  the  sum- 
mit of  a  ridge,  a  fine  grove  of  trees,  standing  in 
orderly  array,  like  an  army  ready  for  action. 
Mr.  Burroughs  has  named  the  place,  in  charac- 
teristic fashion,  "Woodchuck  Lodge,"  "be- 
cause," he  said,  "  I  can  sit  here  and  count  the 
woodchucks,  sometimes  eight  or  ten  at  a  time." 

Not  wishing  to  interfere  with  his  plans,  I 
expressed  the  hope  that  I  was  not  interrupting 
him,  when  he  quickly  replied,  "  0,  my  work  for 
238 


JOHN   BURROUGHS  AT   WOODCHUCK   LODGE 


A  DAY  WITH  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

to-day  is  all  done.  I  rise  at  six  and  usually  do  all 
my  writing  before  noon."  "You  are  like  Sir 
Walter  Scott,  then,"  said  I,  "who  always  began 
early  and,  as  he  said, '  broke  the  neck  of  the  day's 
work'  before  the  family  came  down  to  breakfast 
and  was  '  his  own  man  before  noon.' "  "Ah,  he 
was  a  wonderful  man,"  replied  Mr.  Burroughs. 
Then,  after  a  pause  and  with  a  little  sigh — "I 
wish  I  could  invest  these  hills  with  romance  as 
he  did  the  hills  of  Scotland."  "But  you  have 
invested  them  with  romance,"  I  said,  "  although 
of  a  different  kind."  "Yes,"  he  replied,  with 
brightening  eyes,  "  with  the  romance  of  humanity 
and  of  nature,  the  only  kind  to  which  they  are 
entitled." 

I  could  not  help  thinking  how  wonderfully  like 
Wordsworth  this  seemed.  The  romance  of  hu- 
manity and  nature !  Is  it  not  this,  which,  since 
Wordsworth's  time,  has  given  a  new  charm  to  the 
hills  and  valleys  of  Westmoreland  and  Cumber- 
land, causing  every  visitor  to  seek  the  dwelling- 
places  of  the  poet?  And  are  not  those  who  spend 
their  summers  in  the  Catskills  finding  a  new  de- 
light in  those  beautiful  mountains  because  of  the 
spell  which  John  Burroughs  has  thrown  upon 
them? 

Wordsworth  wrote  the  history  of  his  own  mind 
and  called  it  "  The  Prelude,"  intending  it  to  be 
but  the  introduction  to  a  greater  poem  to  be  en- 
titled "  The  Recluse/'  which  should  be  a  broad 

239 


THE  LURE  OP  THE  CAMERA 

presentation  of  his  views  on  Man,  Nature,  and 
Society.  "  The  Excursion"  was  to  be  the  second 
part,  but  the  third  was  never  written.  He  con- 
ceived that  this  great  work  would  be  like  a  Gothic 
church,  the  main  body  of  which  would  be  repre- 
sented by  "The Recluse,"  while  "The  Prelude" 
would  be  but  the  ante-chapel.  All  his  other 
poems,  when  properly  arranged,  would  then  be 
"  likened  to  the  little  cells,  oratories,  and  sepul- 
chral recesses,  ordinarily  included  in  those  edi- 
fices." 

Burroughs  is  far  too  modest  to  compare  his 
writings  to  a  cathedral,  but  he  has  nevertheless, 
like  Wordsworth,  written  himself  into  nearly  all 
of  them.  Following  the  English  poet's  simile 
in  a  modified  form,  we  may  think  of  the  product 
of  his  pen,  not  as  a  cathedral,  but  as  a  mansion 
of  many  rooms,  each  furnished  with  beautiful 
simplicity  and  charming  taste  to  represent  some 
different  phase  of  the  author's  mind,  and  each 
equipped,  so  to  speak,  with  a  mirror,  possessing  all 
the  magic  but  without  the  unpleasant  duty  of  the 
one  in  Hawthorne's  tale,  so  arranged  as  to  reflect 
the  very  soul  of  its  builder  with  perfect  fidelity. 

So  sincere  is  Burroughs  that  you  feel  certain 
he  is  constantly  revealing  his  true  self.  There- 
fore, when  he  praises  Wordsworth  as  the  English 
poet  who  has  touched  him  more  closely  than  any 
other,  you  begin  to  realize  the  bond  of  sympathy. 
When  he  says  that  Wordsworth's  poetry  has  the 

240 


A  DAY  WTIH  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

^character  of  "a  message,  special  and  personal 
to  a  comparatively  small  circle  of  readers,"  you 
know  that  he  is  one  of  the  few  who  have  taken 
the  message  to  heart. 

Wordsworth's  love  of  Nature  was  of  the  same 
kind  as  the  American  poet's.  "Nature,"  says 
Burroughs,  "  is  not  to  be  praised  or  patronized. 
You  cannot  go  to  her  and  describe  her;  she  must 
speak  through  your  heart.  The  woods  and  fields 
must  melt  into  your  mind,  dissolved  by  your  love 
for  them.  Did  they  not  melt  into  Wordsworth's 
mind  ?  They  colored  all  his  thoughts ;  the  sbli- 
tude  of  those  green,  rocky  Westmoreland  fells 
broods  over  every  page.  He  does  not  tell  us  how 
beautiful  he  finds  Nature,  and  how  much  he 
enjoys  her ;  he  makes  us  share  his  enjoyment." 
Substitute  Burroughs  for  Wordsworth,  and  Cats- 
kill  for  Westmoreland,  and  you  have  in  this 
passage  a  fine  statement  of  the  reason  why  John 
Burroughs  is  winning  the  gratitude  of  more  and 
more  people  every  year. 

Wordsworth  thought  of  Nature  as  an  all-per- 
vading Presence,  something  mysterious  and  sub- 
lime, a  supreme  Being,  — 

"  The  anchor  of  my  purest  thoughts,  the  nurse, 
The  guide,  the  guardian  of  my  heart,  and  soul 
Of  all  my  moral  being." 

Burroughs  does  not  rise  to  such  ethereal 
heights,  but  recognizes  that  the  passion  for 
Nature  is  "  a  form  of,  or  closely  related  to,  our 

241 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

religious  instincts."  He  lives  closer  to  Nature 
than  Wordsworth  ever  did.  His  knowledge  of 
her  secrets  is  far  deeper  and  more  intimate.  He 
is  a  naturalist  and  scientist,  as  well  as  a  man  of 
poetic  temperament.  He  has  a  trained  eye  that 
sees  what  others  would  miss.  "  There  is  a  great 
deal  of  byplay  going  on  in  the  life  of  Nature 
about  us/'  he  says,  "  a  great  deal  of  variation 
and  outcropping  of  individual  traits,  that  we 
entirely  miss  unless  we  have  our  eyes  and  ears 
open." 

Probably  no  other  man  has  a  keener  ear  for  the 
music  of  the  birds.  He  possesses  that  "  special 
gift  of  grace,"  to  use  his  own  expression,  that 
enables  one  to  hear  the  bird-songs.  Not  only  can 
he  distinguish  the  various  species  by  their  songs, 
but  he  instantly  recognizes  a  new  note.  He  once 
detected  a  robin,  singing  with  great  spirit  and 
accuracy  the  song  of  the  brown  thrasher,  and  on 
another  occasion  followed  a  thrush  for  a  long 
time  because  he  recognized  three  or  four  notes 
of  a  popular  air  which  the  bird  had  probably 
learned  from  some  whistling  shepherd  boy.  He 
loves  to  put  words  into  the  mouths  of  the  birds 
to  fit  their  songs  and  to  fancy  conversations  be- 
tween husband  and  wife  upon  their  nest.  The 
sensitiveness  of  his  ear  for  bird-music  is  wonder- 
fully illustrated  in  his  story  of  a  new  song  which 
he  heard  on  Slide  Mountain  in  the  Catskills. 
"  The  moment  I  heard  it,  I  said, '  There  is  a  new 

242 


A  DAY  WITH  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

bird,  a  new  thrush/  for  the  quality  of  all  the 
thrush  songs  is  the  same.  A  moment  more  and 
I  knew  it  was  Bickn ell's  thrush.  The  song  is  in 
a  minor  key,  finer,  more  attenuated,  and  more 
under  the  breath  than  that  of  any  other  thrush. 
It  seemed  as  if  the  bird  was  blowing  into  a  deli- 
cate, slender,  golden  tube,  so  fine  and  yet  so  flute- 
like  and  resonant  the  song  appeared.  At  times  it 
was  like  a  musical  whisper  of  great  sweetness  and 
power."  I  do  not  believe  that  Wordsworth  or 
any  other  poet,  however  passionate  his  love  of 
Nature,  ever  heard  such  a  bird-song  or  could 
describe  its  qualities  with  so  keen  a  discernment. 
Mr.  Burroughs  made  me  think  of  Wordsworth 
again  when,  as  we  sat  looking  over  toward  the 
Catskills,  he  explained  his  residence  at  Wood- 
chuck  Lodge  by  referring  to  his  enjoyment  of 
the  open  country  and  the  peace  and  quiet  of  the 
scene.  For,  says  Wordsworth, — 

"  What  want  we  ?  Have  we  not  perpetual  streams, 
Warm  woods,  and  sunny  hills,  and  fresh  green  fields 
And  mountains  not  less  green,  and  flocks  and  herds 
And  thickets  full  of  songsters,  and  the  voice 
Of  lordly  birds,  an  unexpected  sound 
Heard  now  and  then  from  morn  to  latest  eve, 
Admonishing  the  man  who  walks  below 
Of  solitude  and  silence  in  the  sky  ?  " 

After  an  hour  of  pleasant  conversation  my 
host  arose,  saying  he  would  build  his  fire  and  we 
would  have  our  dinner.  In  due  course  we  sat 

243 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

down  to  a  repast  that  would  have  gladdened  the 
heart  of  General  Grant  himself.  The  old  veteran, 
as  many  will  remember,  after  his  return  from  a 
tour  of  triumph  around  the  world,  in  which  he 
had  been  banqueted  by  kings  and  emperors, 
dukes,  millionaires,  and  public  societies,  once 
slipped  into  a  farmer's  kitchen  for  a  dinner  of 
corned  beef  and  cabbage,  declaring  that  he  was 
glad  to  get  something  good  to  eat.  Our  meal  did 
not  consist  of  corned  beef  and  cabbage,  but 
of  corn  cakes,  made  of  fresh  green  corn  plucked 
not  a  couple  of  yards  from  the  kitchen  door 
and  baked  on  a  griddle  by  one  of  the  foremost 
literary  men  of  America.  There  were  other 
good  things,  plenty  of  them,  but  those  delicious 
cakes  with  maple  syrup  of  the  genuine  kind  ex- 
actly "touched  the  spot,"  as  old-fashioned  folks 
used  to  say.  Mine  host  must  have  noticed  the 
unusual  demands  upon  his  crop  of  corn  and  mar- 
veled to  see  the  rapid  disappearance  of  the  cakes, 
but  he  did  not  seem  displeased.  On  the  contrary, 
as  he  brought  in,  time  after  time,  a  fresh  pile  of 
the  steaming  flapjacks,  his  face  beamed  with  the 
smile  that  betokens  genuine  hospitality.  Our  con- 
versation at  table  was  mostly  on  politics,  in  which 
Mr.  Burroughs  takes  keen  interest  and  upon 
which  he  is  a  man  of  decided  convictions;  but 
this  is  a  subject  which  he  must  be  allowed  to 
elucidate  in  his  own  way. 

After  dinner,  Mr.  Burroughs  laughingly  re- 
244 


A  DAY  WITH  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

marked  that  his  study  was  the  barn,  and  we 
walked  up  the  road  to  visit  it.  "  I  cannot  bear  to 
be  cramped  by  the  four  walls  of  a  room/'  said  he, 
"  so  I  have  moved  out  to  the  barn.  I  enjoy  it 
greatly.  The  birds  and  the  small  animals  come  to 
see  me  every  day  and  often  sit  and  talk  with  me. 
The  woodchucks  and  chipmunks,  the  blue  jays 
and  the  hawks,  all  look  in  at  me  while  I  am  at 
work.  A  red  squirrel  often  squats  on  the  stone 
wall  and  scolds  me,  and  the  other  day  an  old  gray 
rabbit  came.  He  sat  there  twisting  his  nose  like 
this"  (here  Mr.  Burroughs  twisted  his  own  nose 
in  comical  fashion),  "  and  seemed  to  be  saying  — 

'  By  the  pricking  of  my  thumbs 
Something  wicked  this  way  comes.'  " 

Arrived  at  the  barn,  Mr.  Burroughs  seated  him- 
self at  his  "  desk."  With  twinkling  eyes  he  ex- 
plained that  it  was  an  old  hencoop.  The  inside 
was  stuffed  with  hay  to  keep  his  feet  warm,  and 
if  the  weather  happens  to  be  chilly,  he  wears  a 
blanket  over  his  shoulders.  A  market-basket  con- 
tains his  manuscript  and  a  few  books  complete 
the  equipment.  The  desk  is  just  inside  the  wide- 
open  doors  of  the  barn,  and  he  sits  with  his  face 
to  the  light.  "  There  is  a  broad  outlook  from  a 
barn  door,"  said  he,  smilingly. 

Beyond  the  low  stone  wall,  where  his  animal 
friends  seat  themselves  for  the  daily  conversa- 
tions, is  an  apple  orchard,  and  in  the  distance  are 

245 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

the  rounded  summits  of  the  Catskills  —  a  view 
as  peaceful  and  refreshing  as  the  one  from  the 
house.  Here  Mr.  Burroughs  is  never  lonely.  One 
day  a  junco,  or  slate-colored  snowbird,  came  on 
a  tour  of  inspection.  She  decided  to  build  her 
nest  in  the  hay.  She  scorned  all  the  materials  so 
close  at  hand  and  brought  everything  from  out- 
side. Her  instinct  had  taught  her  to  find  certain 
materials  for  a  nest,  and  she  could  not  suddenly 
learn  to  make  use  of  the  convenient  hay.  Mr. 
Burroughs,  in  speaking  of  this,  told  me  of  a 
phoebe  who  built  her  nest  over  the  window  of  his 
house.  She  brought  moss  to  conceal  it,  but  as  the 
moss  did  not  match  the  color  of  the  house,  she 
succeeded  only  in  making  her  nest  more  conspicu- 
ous. Since  the  evolution  of  the  species,  phcebes 
have  built  their  nests  on  the  sides  of  cliffs,  using 
moss  of  the  color  of  the  rocks  to  conceal  them. 
The  little  bird  who,  like  the  junco,  followed  her 
instincts,  failed  to  note  the  difference  between 
the  house  and  the  roeks. 

In  conversation  of  this  kind,  Mr.  Burroughs 
turned  the  hours  into  minutes,  and  I  was  sur- 
prised to  look  up  and  see  the  team  approaching 
which  was  to  carry  me  away.  After  a  reluctant 
farewell,  we  drove  over  the  brow  of  a  hill  and 
stopped  for  a  few  moments  before  the  farmhouse 
which  was  the  birthplace  of  John  Burroughs.  A 
comical  incident  took  place.  It  was  raining  hard 
when  we  arrived  and  we  drove  into  the  barn, 
246 


A  DAY  WITH  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

directly  across  the  road  from  the  house.  An  old 
dog  and  a  young  one  were  here,  keeping  them- 
selves dry  from  the  shower.  I  set  up  my  camera 
in  the  barn,  to  take  a  picture  of  the  house.  As  I 
did  so,  I  noticed  the  old  dog  walk  deliberately 
out  in  the  rain  and  perch  himself  upon  the  door- 
step, where  he  turned  around  once  or  twice  as  if 
trying  to  strike  the  right  attitude.  This  point 
determined,  he  stood  perfectly  still  until  I  had 
taken  the  picture,  and  when  I  started  to  put 
away  the  camera,  came  trotting  back  to  the  barn. 
I  do  not  know  what  instinct,  if  any,  prompted  the 
dog  to  wish  his  picture  to  be  taken,  but  he  was  no 
more  foolish  than  many  people,  —  men,  women, 
and  children,  —  who  have  insisted  upon  getting 
into  my  pictures,  though  they  knew  there  was  no 
possibility  of  their  ever  seeing  them. 

Mr.  Burrough's  permanent  home  is  at  West 
Park,  on  the  Hudson  River,  a  few  miles  south  of 
Kingston.  Here  he  has  a  farm  mostly  devoted  to 
the  cultivation  of  grapes.  He  occupies  a  comfort- 
able stone  house,  pleasantly  situated  and  nearly 
surrounded  by  trees  of  various  kinds.  Back  of  the 
house  and  near  the  river  is  the  study  or  den,  a 
little  rustic  building  on  the  slope  of  the  hill, 
where  Mr.  Burroughs  can  write  undisturbed  by 
the  business  of  the  farm.  The  walls  are  partly 
lined  with  bookshelves,  well  crowded  with  favor- 
ite volumes.  Near  by  is  a  small  rustic  summer 
house  from  which  a  delightful  view  of  the  river 

247 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

may  be  seen  for  miles  to  the  north  and  to  the 
south.  This  is  why  the  place  is  called  "  Kiverby  " 
—  simply  "  by-the-river."  It  has  been  the  author's 
home  for  many  years. 

Even  the  study,  however,  did  not  satisfy  Mr. 
Burroughs's  longing  for  quiet,  and  so  he  built 
another  retreat  about  a  mile  and  a  half  west 
of  the  village  which  he  calls  "  Slabsides."  It  is 
reached  by  walking  up  a  hill  and  passing  through 
a  bit  of  hemlock  woods  which  I  found  quite 
charming.  Slabsides  is  a  rustic  house  like  many 
camps  in  the  Adirondacks.  It  is  roughly  built, 
but  sufficiently  comfortable,  and  has  a  pleasant 
little  porch,  at  the  entrance  to  which  a  climbing 
vine  gives  a  picturesque  effect  which  is  greatly 
enhanced  by  a  stone  chimney,  now  almost  com- 
pletely clothed  with  foliage.  It  is  in  an  out-of- 
the-way  hollow  of  the  woods  where  nobody  would 
be  likely  to  come  except  for  the  express  purpose 
of  visiting  Mr.  Burroughs.  For  several  summers 
this  was  his  favorite  retreat.  He  would  walk  over 
from  his  home  at  Riverby  and  stay  perhaps  two 
or  three  weeks  at  a  time,  doing  his  own  cooking 
and  housekeeping.  Of  late  years,  however,  Slab- 
sides  has  been  less  frequently  used,  Woodchuck 
Lodge  having  received  the  preference. 

All  of  these  abodes,  whether  you  see  them 
within  or  without,  reveal  the  secret  of  John  Bur- 
roughs's  strength.  They  coincide  with  his  per- 
sonal appearance,  his  dress,  his  conversation,  his 
248 


A  DAY  WITH  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

manner.  It  is  the  strength  of  absolute  simplic- 
ity. Everything  is  sincere.  Nothing  is  superflu- 
ous. There  is  no  such  thing  as  "  putting  on  airs." 
Fame  and  popularity  have  not  spoiled  him.  He 
is  genuine.  You  feel  it  when  you  see  his  work- 
shops. You  know  it  when  you  meet  the  man. 

Mr.  Charles  Wagner,  the  apostle  of  "  the  sim- 
ple life,"  has  said,  "All  the  strength  of  the 
world  and  all  true  joy,  everything  that  consoles, 
that  feeds  hope,  or  throws  a  ray  of  light  along 
our  dark  paths,  everything  that  makes  us  see 
across  our  poor  lives  a  spendid  goal  and  a  bound- 
less future,  comes  to  us  from  people  of  simplic- 
ity, those  who  have  made  another  object  of  their 
desires  than  the  passing  satisfaction  and  vanity, 
and  have  understood  that  the  art  of  living  is  to 
know  how  to  give  one's  life." 

John  Burroughs  is  one  of  these  "people  of 
simplicity,"  and  his  contribution  to  our  happi- 
ness lies  in  his  rare  power  of  bringing  to  his 
reader  something  of  his  own  enjoyment  of  Na- 
ture— an  enjoyment  which  he  has  been  able  to 
obtain  only  through  the  living  of  a  simple  life. 
He  is  the  complete  embodiment  of  Emerson's 
"  forest  seer  "  :  — 

«  Many  haps  f  all  in  the  field 
Seldom  seen  by  wishful  eyes  ; 
But  all  her  shows  did  Nature  yield, 
To  please  and  win  this  pilgrim  wise. 
He  saw  the  partridge  drum  in  the  woods ; 
249 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

He  heard  the  woodcock's  evening  hymn  ; 
He  found  the  tawny  thrushes'  broods  ; 
And  the  shy  hawk  did  wait  for  him  ; 
What  others  did  at  distance  hear, 
And  guessed  within  the  thicket's  gloom, 
Was  shown  to  this  philosopher 
And  at  his  bidding  seemed  to  come." 


IX 
GLIMPSES  OF  THE  YELLOWSTONE 


IX 

GLIMPSES  OF  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

THE  Yellowstone  National  Park  is  Nature's 
jewel  casket,  in  which  she  has  kept  her 
choicest  gems  for  countless  generations.  Securely 
sheltered  by  ranges  of  rugged  mountains  they 
have  long  been  safe  from  human  depredations. 
The  red  man  doubtless  knew  of  them,  but  super- 
stition came  to  the  aid  of  Nature  and  held  him 
awe-struck  at  a  safe  distance.  The  first  white  man 
who  came  within  sight  of  these  wonders  a  cen- 
tury ago  could  find  no  one  to  believe  his  tales, 
and  for  a  generation  or  two  the  region  of  hot 
springs  and  boiling  geysers  which  he  described 
was  sneeringly  termed  "Colter's  Hell."  Only 
within  the  last  half-century  have  the  generality 
of  mankind  been  permitted  to  view  these  pre- 
cious jewels,  and  even  then  jealous  Nature,  it 
would  seem,  did  not  consent  to  reveal  her  treas- 
ures until  fully  assured  that  they  would  have  the 
protection  of  no  less  powerful  a  guardianship 
than  that  of  the  National  Government. 

On  the  18th  of  September,  1870,  a  party  of  ex- 
plorers, headed  by  General  Henry  D.  Washburn, 
then  Surveyor-General  of  Montana,  emerged  from 
the  forest  into  an  open  plain  and  suddenly  found 

253 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

themselves  not  one  hundred  yards  away  from  a 
huge  column  of  boiling  water,  from  which  great 
rolling  clouds  of  snow-white  vapor  rose  high  into 
the  air  against  the  blue  sky.  It  was  "  Old  Faith- 
ful "  in  action.  Then  and  there  they  resolved  that 
this  whole  region  of  wonders  should  be  made  into 
a  public  park  for  the  benefit  of  all  the  people, 
and  renouncing  any  thought  of  securing  the 
lands  for  personal  gain,  these  broad-minded  men 
used  their  influence  to  have  the  National  Congress 
assume  the  permanent  guardianship  of  the  place. 
And  now  that  protection  is  fully  assured  these 
jewels  of  Nature  may  be  seen  by  you  and  me. 

Those  who  have  traveled  much  will  tell  you 
that  Nature  is  prodigal  of  her  riches,  and,  indeed, 
this  would  seem  to  be  true  to  one  who  has  spent 
a  summer  among  the  snow-clad  peaks  of  the  Alps, 
or  dreamed  away  the  days  amid  the  blue  lakes  of 
northern  Italy,  or  wandered  about  in  the  green 
forests  of  the  Adirondacks,  where  every  towering 
spruce,  every  fragrant  balsam,  every  dainty  wild 
flower  and  every  mossy  log  is  a  thing  of  beauty. 
But  these  are  Nature's  full-dress  garments,  just 
as  the  broad-spreading  wheatfi elds  of  the  Dakotas 
are  her  work-a-day  clothes.  Her  "  jewels "  are 
safely  locked  up  in  places  more  difficult  of  ac- 
cess, where  they  may  be  seen  by  only  a  favored 
few ;  and  one  of  these  safe-deposit  boxes,  so  to 
speak,  is  the  Yellowstone  National  Park. 
•  The  first  collection  of  these  natural  gems  is  at 

254 


GLIMPSES  OF  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

Mammoth  Hot  Springs,  and  here  my  camera,  as 
if  by  instinct,  led  me  quickly  to  the  daintiest  in 
form  and  most  delicate  in  colorings  of  them  all, 
a  beautiful  formation  known  as  Hymen  Terrace. 
A  series  of  steps,  covering  a  circular  area  of  per- 
haps one  hundred  feet  in  diameter,  has  been 
formed  by  the  overflow  of  a  hot  spring.  The 
terraces  consist  of  a  series  of  semicircular  and 
irregular  curves  or  scallops,  like  a  combination 
of  hundreds  of  richly  carved  pulpits,  wrought  in 
a  soft,  white  substance  resembling  coral.  Little 
pools  of  glistening  water  reflect  the  sunlight  from 
the  tops  of  the  steps,  while  a  gently  flowing 
stream  spreads  imperceptibly  over  about  one  half 
the  surface,  sprinkling  it  with  millions  of  dia- 
monds as  the  altar  of  Hymen  ought  to  be.  The 
pools  are  greens  and  blues  of  many  shades,  vary- 
ing with  the  depth  of  the  water.  The  sides  of  the 
steps  are  pure  white  in  the  places  where  the  water 
has  ceased  to  flow,  but  beneath  the  thin  stream 
they  range  in  color  from  a  rich  cream  to  a  deep 
brown,  with  all  the  intermediate  shades  harmo- 
niously blended.  From  the  highest  pools,  and 
especially  from  the  largest  one  at  the  very  sum- 
mit of  the  mound,  rise  filmy  veils  of  steam,  soft- 
ening the  exquisite  tints  into  a  rich  harmony  of 
color  against  the  azure  of  the  sky. 

The  Terrace  of  Hymen  is  the  most  exquisite 
of  the  formations,  but  there  are  others  much 
larger  and  more  magnificent.  Minerva  Terrace 

255 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

gave  me  a  foreground  for  a  charming  picture. 
Beyond  its  richly  colored  steps  and  sparkling 
pools  were  the  splendid  summits  of  the  Gallatin 
Range  towering  more  than  ten  thousand  feet 
above  the  level  of  the  sea  and  seeming,  in  the 
clear  mountain  air,  to  be  much  nearer  than  they 
really  are.  Hovering  above  their  peaks  were  piles 
upon  piles  of  foamy  clouds,  through  which  could 
be  seen  a  background  of  the  bluest  of  skies, 
while  down  below  were  the  gray  stone  buildings 
with  their  bright  red  roofs  that  form  the  head- 
quarters of  the  army  guarding  the  park. 

Jupiter  Terrace,  the  most  imposing  of  all  these 
formations,  extends  a  quarter  of  a  mile  along  the 
edge  of  a  brilliantly  colored  mound,  rising  about 
three  hundred  feet  above  the  plain  upon  which 
Fort  Yellowstone  is  built.  Pulpit  Terrace,  on 
its  eastern  slope,  reproduces  upon  a  larger  scale 
the  rich  carvings  and  exquisite  tints  of  Hymen, 
though  without  the  symmetry  of  structure.  The 
springs  at  its  summit  are  among  the  most  strik- 
ingly beautiful  of  these  unique  formations  which 
I  like  to  call  the  "jewels  "  of  Nature.  Two  large 
pools  of  steaming  water  lie  side  by  side,  appar- 
ently identical  in  structure,  and  separated  only 
by  a  narrow  ridge  of  lime.  The  one  on  the 
left  is  a  clear  turquoise  blue,  while  its  neigh- 
bor is  distinctly  Nile  green.  Surrounding  these 
springs  are  several  smaller  pools,  one  a  rich 
orange  color,  another  light  brown,  and  a  third 
'  256 


GLIMPSES  OF  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

brown  of  a  much  darker  hue.  The  edges  of  all 
are  tinted  in  yellow,  brown,  and  gold  of  varied 
shades.  The  pools  are  apparently  all  a  part  of 
the  same  spring  or  group  of  springs,  and  subject 
to  the  same  conditions  of  light ;  yet  I  noticed  at 
least  five  distinct  colors  in  as  many  pools.  The 
water  itself  is  colorless  and  the  different  hues 
must  be  imparted  by  the  colorings  of  the  lime 
deposits,  influenced  by  the  varying  depth  and 
temperature  of  the  water. 

What  is  known  as  "the  formation"  of  the 
Mammoth  Hot  Springs  covers  perhaps  fifty  or 
sixty  acres  on  the  slope  of  Terrace  Mountain.  It 
is  a  heavy  deposit  of  lime  or  travertine,  essen- 
tially the  same  as  the  stalagmites  and  stalactites 
which  one  sees  in  certain  caverns.  When  dry  it 
is  white  and  soft  like  chalk.  The  colorings  of 
the  terraces  are  of  vegetable  origin,  caused  by  a 
thin,  velvety  growth,  botanically  classed  as  algae, 
which  flourishes  only  in  warm  water.  The  heat 
of  rocks  far  beneath  the  surface  warms  the  water 
of  the  springs,  which,  passing  through  a  bed  of 
limestone,  brings  to  the  surface  a  deposit  of  pure 
calcium  carbonate.  Wherever  the  flow  of  water 
remains  warm  the  algae  appear  and  tint  the  grow- 
ing formation  with  as  many  shades  of  brown  as 
there  are  varying  temperatures  of  the  water. 
When  the  water  is  diverted,  as  is  likely  to  hap- 
pen from  one  season  to  the  next,  the  algae  die 
and  the  surfaces  become  a  chalky  white. 

257 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

Leaving  the  Hot  Springs,  the  road  passes 
through  the  Golden  Gate,  where,  on  one  side,  a 
perpendicular  wall  of  rock  rises  to  a  height  of 
two  hundred  feet  or  more,  and  on  the  other  are 
the  wooded  slopes  and  rocky  summit  of  Bun  sen 
Peak  —  a  beautiful  canon,  where  the  view  sug- 
gests the  greater  glories  of  Swiss  mountain  scen- 
ery, but  for  that  very  reason  is  not  to  be  men- 
tioned here  among  the  rare  gems  of  the  park. 
Nor  shall  I  include  the  "Hoodoos,"  which, 
though  distinctly  unusual,  are  far  from  beauti- 
ful. An  area  of  many  acres  is  covered  with  huge 
fragments  of  massive  rocks,  piled  in  disorderly 
confusion,  as  though  some  Cyclops,  in  a  fit  of 
ugly  temper,  had  torn  away  the  whole  side  of  a 
mountain  and  scattered  the  pieces.  Through 
these  rocks  project  the  whitened  trunks  of  thou- 
sands of  dead  trees,  —  a  sort  of  ghostly  night- 
mare through  which  we  were  glad  to  pass  as 
quickly  as  possible. 

We  stopped  for  lunch  at  the  Norris  Geyser 
Basin,  and  here  saw  some  miniature  geysers,  as 
a  kind  of  preparation  for  the  greater  ones  be- 
yond. The  "Constant,"  true  to  its  name,  throws 
up  a  pretty  little  white  fountain  so  often  that  it 
seems  to  prepare  for  a  new  eruption  almost  be- 
fore the  previous  one  has  subsided.  The  "  Minute 
Man  "  is  always  on  duty  and  pops  up  his  little 
spray  of  hot  water,  fifteen  feet  high,  every  min- 
ute or  two.  The  "  Monarch,"  near  by,  is  much 

258 


GLIMPSES  OF  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

larger,  but  not  at  all  pretty.  It  throws  up  a 
stream  of  black,  muddy  water  seventy-five  to  one 
hundred  feet  high  about  every  forty  minutes. 

Some  of  these  geysers  are  steady  old  fellows 
who  have  found  their  appointed  task  in  life  and 
have  settled  down  to  perform  it  with  commend- 
able regularity.  The  Norris  Basin,  however,  seems 
to  be  the  favorite  playground  of  the  youngsters, 
—  a  frisky  lot  of  geysers  of  no  fixed  habits  and 
a  playful  disposition  to  burst  out  in  unexpected 
places.  Such  is  the  New  Crater,  which  asserted 
itself  with  a  great  commotion  in  1891,  bursting 
forth  with  the  violence  of  an  earthquake.  An- 
other erratic  young  fellow  is  the  "  Fountain  Gey- 
ser," in  the  Lower  Basin.  In  July,  1899,  he  was 
seized  with  a  fit  of  the  "  sulks  "  and  for  three 
months  refused  to  play  at  all.  In  October  he  de- 
cided to  resume  operations  and  behaved  quite 
well  for  ten  years,  when  he  suddenly  took  a 
notion  to  abandon  his  crater  for  the  apartments 
of  his  neighbor  next  door.  Apparently  the  fur- 
nishings of  his  new  abode  did  not  suit  him,  for 
he  began  at  once  to  throw  them  out  with  great 
violence,  hurling  huge  masses  of  rock  with  vol- 
canic force  to  a  height  of  two  hundred  feet. 
Amid  terrific  rumblings  and  the  hissing  of  escap- 
ing steam,  this  angry  outburst  continued  for  sev- 
eral days,  and  did  not  wholly  cease  for  nearly 
two  months.  Since  then  the  "  Fountain "  has 
settled  down  to  the  ordinary  daily  occupation  of 
259 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

a  self-respecting  geyser.  When  I  saw  him  he  was 
as  calm  and  serene  as  a  summer's  day,  and  to  all 
appearances  had  never  been  guilty  of  mischief, 
nor  even  exhibited  a  ruffled  temper  in  all  his 
life.  Indeed,  had  I  not  known  his  history  (in- 
conceivable in  one  of  the  gentler  sex),  I  should 
have  personified  this  geyser  in  the  feminine 
gender,  because  of  his  exquisite  beauty.  A  great 
jewel  seemed  to  be  set  into  the  surface  of  the 
earth.  Its  smooth  upper  face,  about  thirty  feet 
in  diameter,  was  level  with  the  ground  upon 
which  we  stood.  Its  color,  at  first  glance,  seemed 
to  be  a  rich  turquoise  blue,  but  as  we  looked  into 
the  clear,  transparent  depths  there  seemed  to  be 
a  hundred  other  shades  of  blue,  all  blending  har- 
moniously. In  the  farthest  corner,  beneath  a  shelf 
or  mound  of  geyserite,  appeared  the  opening  of 
a  fathomless  cave.  All  around  its  edges,  and 
continuing  in  wavy  lines  of  delicate  tracery 
around  the  bottom  of  the  bowl,  were  marvelous 
patterns  of  exquisite  lacework,  every  angle  seem- 
ing to  catch  and  throw  back  its  own  particular 
ray  of  bluish  light.  There  was  not  a  ripple  to 
disturb  the  surface,  not  a  bubble  to  foretell  the 
violent  eruption  which  a  few  hours  would  bring 
forth,  and  only  a  thin  film  of  vapor  to  suggest 
faintly  the  extraordinary  character  of  this  beau- 
tiful pool. 

Only  a  few  hundred  feet  away  is  another  cu- 
rious phenomenon  in  this  region  of  surprises.  It 

260 


GLIMPSES  OF  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

is  a  cauldron  of  boiling  mud,  measuring  forty  or 
fifty  feet  in  diameter,  known  as  the  "  Mammoth 
Paint  Pots,"  where  a  mass  of  clay  is  kept  in  a 
state  of  continuous  commotion.  Millions  of  bub- 
bles rise  to  the  surface  and  explode,  sputtering 
like  a  thick  mess  of  porridge  kept  at  the  boiling 
point.  The  color  is  a  creamy  white  where  the 
ebullition  is  greatest,  but  thick  masses  thrown 
up  around  the  edges  and  allowed  to  cool  have 
assumed  a  delicate  shade  of  pink.  A  smaller  but 
more  beautiful  formation  of  the  same  kind  is  seen 
near  the  Thumb  Station  on  the  Yellowstone  Lake. 
As  we  proceeded,  Nature's  jewels  seemed  to 
increase  in  number  and  magnificence.  Turquoise 
Spring,  a  sheet  of  water  one  hundred  feet  wide, 
has  all  the  beauty  of  the  Fountain  Geyser  in  the 
latter's  quiet  state,  with  an  added  reputation  for 
tranquillity,  for  it  is  not  a  geyser  at  all.  Near  by 
is  Prismatic  Lake,  about  four  hundred  feet  long 
and  two  hundred  and  fifty  feet  wide.  Its  center 
is  a  very  deep  blue,  changing  to  green  of  varying 
shades,  and  finally,  in  the  shallowest  parts,  to 
yellow,  orange,  and  brown.  It  is  a  great  spring 
from  the  center  of  which  the  water  flows  in  deli- 
cate, wavy  ringlets.  The  mineral  deposits  have 
formed  countless  scallops,  like  miniature  terraces, 
a  few  inches  high,  sculpturing  a  wonderful  pat- 
tern in  hues  of  reds,  purples,  and  browns,  deli- 
cately imposed  upon  a  background  of  gray.  A 
thin  veil  of  rising  steam  was  carried  away  by  the 

261 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

wind  just  enough  to  reveal  the  wonderful  color- 
ings to  our  eyes,  while  the  sun  added  to  the  be- 
wildering beauty  of  the  spectacle  by  changing 
the  vapor  into  a  million  prisms  reflecting  all  the 
colors  of  the  rainbow. 

In  this  connection  I  must  not  fail  to  mention 
the  Morning-Glory  Spring,  where  the  action  of 
a  geyser  has  carved  out  a  deep  bowl,  twenty  feet 
in  diameter.  It  would  seem  as  though  Nature  had 
sunk  a  gigantic  morning-glory  into  the  earth, 
leaving  its  rim  flush  with  the  surface  and  yet  re- 
taining, clearly  visible  beneath  the  smooth  surface 
of  the  transparent  water,  all  the  delicate  shades 
of  the  original  flower. 

The  Sapphire  Spring,  not  far  away,  is  another 
of  the  little  gems  of  the  region.  It  is  a  small, 
pulsating  spring,  and  the  jewel  itself  is  not  less 
remarkable  than  its  extraordinary  setting,  resem- 
bling coral.  The  constant  flow  of  the  waters  from 
a  center  to  all  directions  has  caused  the  forma- 
tion of  a  series  of  irregular  concentric  circles, 
broken  into  little  knobs  or  mounds,  from  which 
the  vicinity  takes  its  name  of  the  "Biscuit  Basin." 

As  we  approached  the  Upper  Geyser  Region, 
the  number  and  variety  of  these  highly  colored 
pools,  hot  springs,  geysers,  and  strange  forma- 
tions increased  steadily,  until  at  last  we  stood 
in  the  presence  of  "Old  Faithful,"  the  crown 
jewel  of  the  collection,  the  Koh-i-noor  of  Nature's 
casket. 

262 


GLIMPSES  OF  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

A  strong  breeze  from  the  north  was  blowing 
as  I  stood  before  the  geyser  for  the  first  time,  and 
for  that  reason,  I  decided  to  place  my  camera 
directly  to  the  west.  A  small  cloud  of  steam  was 
rising,  which  seemed  gradually  to  increase  in 
volume.  Then,  as  I  watched,  a  small  spray  of 
water  would  shoot  up  occasionally  above  the  rim 
of  the  crater.  Then  a  puff  of  steam  and  another 
spray,  breaking  into  globules  as  the  wind  carried 
it  away.  Then  silence.  Suddenly  a  large,  full 
stream  shot  up  a  distance  of  twenty  or  thirty  feet 
and  fell  back  again,  and  the  crater  remained 
quiet  for  at  least  five  minutes.  Is  that  all?  I 
thought.  Does  its  boasted  regularity  only  mean 
that  while  it  plays  once  in  sixty-five  minutes,  yet 
the  height  of  some  of  the  eruptions  may  be  only 
trifling  ?  I  began  to  feel  doubtful,  not  to  say  dis- 
appointed. The  column  of  steam  seemed  smaller, 
and  I  wondered  if  I  should  have  to  wait  another 
hour  for  a  real  eruption,  when  suddenly  the  lazily 
drifting  cloud  became  a  giant,  like  the  genie  in 
the  Arabian  Nights.  Up  into  the  air  shot  a  huge 
column  of  water,  followed  instantly  by  another 
still  higher,  then  another,  until  in  a  moment  or 
two  there  towered  above  the  earth  a  gigantic  col- 
umn of  boiling  water  one  hundred  and  fifty  feet 
high.  Straight  as  a  flagstaff  it  seemed  on  the  left, 
while  to  the  right  rolled  the  waving  folds  of  a 
huge  white  banner,  obscuring  the  blue  of  the 
sky  in  one  great  mass  of  snowy  vapor.  For  sev- 

263 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

eral  minutes  the  puffs  of  steam  rolled  up,  and  the 
fountain  continued  to  play.  Then,  little  by  little, 
its  form  grew  less,  its  force  weakened,  and  at  last 
there  was  only  the  little  lazy  pillar  of  vapor  out- 
lined against  the  distant  hills. 

Again  and  again  during  the  day  I  watched  it 
with  an  ever -increasing  sense  of  fascination, 
which  reached  its  climax  in  the  evening,  when  the 
eruption  was  lighted  by  the  powerful  search-light 
on  the  hotel.  As  the  great  clouds  of  steam  rolled 
up,  the  strong  light  seemed  to  impart  a  vast 
variety  of  colors,  ranging  from  rich  cream  to 
yellow,  orange,  brown,  and  purple,  blended  har- 
moniously but  ever  changing  like  the  rich  silk 
robes  of  some  Oriental  potentate,  —  a  spectacle 
of  bewildering  beauty,  defying  the  power  of  pen 
to  describe  or  brush  to  paint. 

There  are  other  geysers  greater  than  "Old 
Faithful."  "  The  Giant "  plays  to  a  height  of 
two  hundred  and  fifty  feet,  and  the  "  Grand  " 
and  "  Beehive  "  nearly  as  high ;  the  "  Grotto  " 
has  a  more  fantastic  crater ;  the  "  Castle "  has 
the  largest  cone,  and  with  its  beautifully  colored 
"  Castle  Well "  is  more  unique ;  and  the  "  River- 
side," which  plays  a  stream  diagonally  across  the 
Firehole  River,  makes  a  more  striking  scenic  dis- 
play. But  all  of  these  play  at  irregular  intervals 
and  with  far  less  frequency,  varying  from  a  few 
hours  to  ten  or  twelve  days  between  eruptions. 
On  the  other  hand,  the  regularity  with  which 
264 


OLD   FAITHFUL 


GLIMPSES  OF  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

"  Old  Faithful "  sends  his  straight,  magnificent 
column  to  the  skies  is  fascinating  beyond  descrip- 
tion. Every  sixty-five  or  seventy  minutes,  never 
varying  more  than  five  minutes,  day  and  night, 
in  all  seasons  and  every  kind  of  weather,  "  Old 
Faithful"  has  steadily  performed  his  task  since 
first  discovered  in  1870  until  the  present  time, 
and  no  man  can  tell  for  how  many  centuries  be- 
fore. 

"  O !  Fountain  of  the  Wilderness !  Eternal  Mystery ! 
Whence  came  thy  wondrous  power  ? 
For  ages,  —  long  before  the  eye  of  Man 
Found  access  to  thy  charm,  thou  'st  played 
Thy  stream  of  marvelous  beauty. 
In  midnight  dark  no  less  than  glorious  day, 
In  wintry  storms  as  well  as  summer's  calm, 
Oblivious  to  the  praise  of  men, 
Each  hour  to  Heaven  thou  hast  raised 
Thine  offering  pure,  of  dazzling  white. 
Thy  Maker's  eye  alone  has  seen 
The  tribute  of  thy  faithfulness, 
And  thou  hast  been  content  to  play  thy  part 
In  Nature's  solitude." 

Not  alone  as  the  guardian  of  Nature's  jewels 
is  the  Yellowstone  National  Park  remarkable. 
Even  if  the  wonderful  geysers,  hot  springs,  and 
many-colored  pools  were  taken  away,  —  locked 
up  in  a  strong  box  and  hidden  from  sight  as 
jewels  often  are,  —  the  more  familiar  phases  of 
natural  scenery,  such  as  mountains,  rivers,  lakes, 
and  waterfalls  would  make  it  one  of  the  wonder- 

265 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

places  of  America.  On  the  eastern  boundary  is  the 
great  Absaroka  Range,  with  peaks  rising  over 
10,000  feet.  In  the  northwest  corner  is  the  Galla- 
tin  Range,  dominated  by  the  Electric  Peak,  11,155 
feet  high,  covered  with  snow,  and  so  charged 
with  electricity  as  to  make  the  surveyor's  transit 
almost  useless.  The  Yellowstone  and  Gardiner 
Rivers,  which  join  at  the  northern  boundary,  are 
separated  within  the  park  by  a  range  of  moun- 
tains of  which  the  highest  is  Mount  Washburne 
(10,350  feet),  named  for  the  leader  of  the  expedi- 
tion of  1870.  Farther  south,  and  midway  between 
the  Upper  Geyser  Basin  and  the  Yellowstone 
Lake,  is  the  Continental  Divide.  The  road  passes 
between  two  small  lakes,  one  of  which  discharges 
its  waters  into  the  Atlantic  Ocean  by  way  of  the 
Yellowstone,  the  Missouri,  and  the  Gulf  of  Mex- 
ico, while  the  other  flows  into  the  Pacific  through 
Snake  River  and  the  Columbia.  From  a  point  a 
few  miles  to  the  east  Lake  Shoshone  may  be  seen 
far  below,  and  seeming  to  tower  directly  above 
it,  but  really  fifty  miles  away,  just  beyond  the 
southern  boundary  of  the  park,  are  the  three 
sentinels  of  the  Teton  Range,  the  highest  13,741 
feet  above  the  sea.  The  entire  park  is  in  the  heart 
of  the  Rocky  Mountains,  its  lowest  level  being 
over  6000  feet  elevation. 

The  park  is  full  of  lakes  and  streams  varying 
in  size  from  the  hundreds  of  little  pools  and 
brooks,  hidden  away  among  the  rocks,  to  the 
266 


1 


GLIMPSES  OF  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

great  Yellowstone  Lake,  twenty  miles  in  width, 
and  the  picturesque  river  of  the  same  name. 
Here  and  there  are  beautiful  cascades  which  one 
would  go  miles  to  see  anywhere  else,  but  the 
surfeited  travelers  give  them  only  a  careless 
glance  as  the  stages  pass  without  stopping.  The 
Kepler  Cascades  tumble  over  the  rocks  in  a  se- 
ries of  falls  of  more  than  a  hundred  feet,  making 
a  charming  veil  of  white  lace,  against  a  dark 
background  of  rocks  and  pines.  The  Gibbon 
Falls,  eighty  feet  high,  are  nearly  as  attractive, 
while  the  little  Rustic  Falls,  of  sixty  feet,  in 
Golden  Gate  Canon,  are  really  quite  delightful. 
These,  and  many  others,  are  passed  in  compara- 
tive indifference,  for  the  traveler  has  already 
seen  many  wonderful  sights  and  knows  that 
greater  ones  are  yet  in  store.  His  anticipations 
are  realized  with  good  measure  running  over, 
when  at  last  he  catches  his  first  glimpse  of  the 
great  Canon  of  the  Yellowstone. 

With  us  this  glimpse  came  at  the  Upper  Falls, 
where  the  Yellowstone  River  suddenly  drops 
one  hundred  and  twelve  feet,  suggesting  the 
American  Fall  at  Niagara,  though  the  volume  of 
water  is  not  so  great.  It  is  more  beautiful,  how- 
ever, because  of  the  wildness  of  the  scenery. 
Lower  down,  the  river  takes  another  drop,  fall- 
ing to  the  very  bottom  of  the  canon.  Here  the 
cataract  is  more  than  twice  the  height  of  Niag- 
ara, and  though  lacking  the  width  of  the  stream 

267 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

that  makes  the  latter  so  impressive,  is  in  every 
respect  far  more  beautiful. 

One  must  stand  near  the  edge  of  the  rocks  at 
Inspiration  Point  to  grasp  the  full  majesty  of 
the  scene.  We  are  now  three  miles  below  the 
Great  Falls.  The  Upper  Fall,  which  at  close 
range  is  a  great,  beautiful  white  sheet  of  water, 
rolling  with  imperial  force  over  a  rocky  preci- 
pice, seems  only  a  trifling  detail  in  the  vast  pic- 
ture —  a  mere  touch  of  dazzling  white  where  all 
else  is  in  color.  At  the  bottom  is  the  blue  of  the 
river,  broken  here  and  there  into  foamy  white 
waves.  Pines  and  mosses  contribute  touches  of 
green.  The  rocky  cliffs  are  yellow  and  gold, 
deepening  into  orange.  In  the  distance  a  great 
rock  of  crimson  stands  like  a  fortress,  with  arched 
doorway,  through  which  is  seen  a  vista  of  green 
fields.  But  this  is  an  optical  illusion,  as  a  strong 
glass  will  reveal.  The  doorway  is  only  a  pointed 
fir,  which  the  distance  has  softened  into  the 
shadow  of  a  pointed  arch.  Mediaeval  castles  rear 
their  buttressed  fronts  on  inaccessible  slopes. 
Cathedral  spires,  as  majestic  as  those  of  Cologne, 
and  numerous  as  the  minarets  of  Milan,  stand 
out  in  bold  relief.  Away  down  below  is  an  eagle's 
nest,  into  which  we  can  look  and  see  the  birds, 
yet  it  is  perched  upon  a  pinnacle  so  high  that  if 
one  were  to  stand  at  the  level  of  the  river  and 
look  up,  it  would  tower  above  him  higher  than 
the  tallest  building  in  the  world. 
268 


GLIMPSES  OF  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

Not  a  sign  of  the  handiwork  of  man  appears 
in  any  direction.  The  gorgeous  spectacle,  revel- 
ing in  all  the  hues  of  the  rainbow,  is  just  as  Na- 
ture made  it  —  let  the  geologist  say,  if  he  can, 
how  many  thousands  of  years  ago.  And  above  all 
this  splendid  panorama,  un  equaled  save  by  the 
glory  of  the  sunset  sky,  is  that  same  rich  blue 
which  Nature  employs  to  add  the  final  touch  of 
loveliness  to  all  her  greatest  works,  and  yet  re- 
serves enough  to  beautify  the  more  familiar 
scenes  at  home. 


X 

THE  GEAND  CANON  OF  ARIZONA 


THE  GRAND  CANON  OF  ARIZONA 

1  ARRIVED  at  the  canon  on  a  cold  night  in 
January,  1903,  alone.  There  were  few  guests 
at  the  hotel,  which  was  a  capacious  log  cabin, 
with  long,  single-storied  frame  structures  project- 
ing in  various  directions,  to  serve  the  purposes 
of  sleeping-rooms  and  kitchens.  It  had  a  primi- 
tive look,  far  more  in  keeping  with  the  solitude 
of  its  surroundings  than  the  present  comfortable 
hotel.  An  old  guide  (I  hoped  he  might  be  John 
Hance)  sat  by  the  fire  talking  with  a  group  of 
loungers,  and  I  sauntered  near  enough  to  hear 
the  conversation,  expecting  to  listen  to  some 
good  tale  of  the  canon.  But  the  talk  was  com- 
monplace. Presently  an  Indian  came  in  accom- 
panied by  a  young  squaw.  He  was  said  to  be 
a  hundred  years  old  —  a  fact  no  doubt  easily 
proved  by  the  layers  of  dirt  on  his  face  and 
hands,  if  one  could  count  them  like  the  rings  on 
a  tree.  He  proved  to  be  only  a  lazy  old  beggar 
and  quite  unromantic.  The  hotel  management 
did  not  provide  Indian  dances  and  other  forms 
of  amusement  then  as  now  and  I  was  obliged  to 
spend  a  dull  evening.  I  read  the  guidebooks  and 
reached  the  conclusion  that  the  canon  was  not 

273 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

worth  visiting  if  one  did  not  go  "  down  the 
trail "  to  the  bottom  of  it.  So  I  inquired  at  the 
desk  when  the  party  would  start  in  the  morning, 
and  was  dismayed  to  be  told  that  there  would 
be  none  unless  somebody  wanted  to  go.  I  was 
told  to  put  my  name  on  the  "  list "  and  no  doubt 
others  would  see  it  and  we  might  "  get  up  "  a 
party.  I  therefore  boldly  signed  my  name  at  the 
top  of  a  white  sheet  of  paper,  feeling  much  like 
a  decoy,  and  awaited  results.  Again  and  again 
during  the  lonesome  evening  I  sauntered  over 
to  the  desk,  but  not  one  of  the  few  guests  had 
shown  the  slightest  interest.  At  ten  o'clock  my 
autograph  still  headed  an  invisible  list,  as  lonely 
as  the  man  for  whom  it  stood,  and  I  went  to 
bed,  vowing  to  myself  that  if  I  could  get  only 
one  companion,  besides  the  guide,  I  would  go 
down  the  trail. 

It  was  still  dark  when  I  heard  the  strident 
voice  of  a  Japanese  porter  calling  through  the 
corridor,  "  Brek-f oos  !  Brek-foos  "  !  and  I  rose 
quickly.  The  dawn  was  just  breaking  as  I  stepped 
out  into  the  chill  air  and  walked  to  the  edge  of 
the  great  chasm.  Before  me  rolled  a  sea  of  vapor. 
It  was  as  though  a  massive  curtain  of  clouds  had 
been  let  down  from  the  sky  to  protect  the  canon 
in  the  night.  The  spectacle  was  not  to  be  exhib- 
ited until  the  proper  hour  arrived.  The  great 
white  ocean  stretched  away  to  the  north  as  far 
as  the  eye  could  reach,  filling  every  nook  and 
274 


THE  GRAND  CANON 

corner  of  the  vast  depression.  In  the  east  the 
rosy  tints  of  the  morning  brightened  the  sky. 
Suddenly  a  ray  of  light  illumined  what  appeared 
to  be  a  rock,  far  out  in  the  filmy  ocean,  and  the 
black  mass  blazed  with  the  ruddy  hue.  The  tip 
of  another  great  butte  suddenly  projected  itself 
and  caught  another  ray  of  light.  One  by  one 
the  rugged  domes  of  the  great  rock  temples  of 
Brahma  and  Buddha  and  Zoroaster  and  Isis,  as 
they  are  called,  peeped  into  view  as  the  mists 
gradually  disappeared,  catching  the  morning 
sunbeams  at  a  thousand  different  angles,  and 
throwing  back  a  kaleidoscope  of  purples,  blues, 
reds,  and  yellows,  until  at  last  the  whole  superb 
canon  was  revealed  in  a  burst  of  color,  over  which 
the  amethyst  reigned  supreme. 

How  long  I  should  have  stood  enraptured  be- 
fore this  scene  of  superlative  grandeur,  so  mar- 
velously  unfolded  to  the  sight,  I  do  not  know, 
had  not  the  more  prosaic  call  of  "Brek-foos! " 
long  since  forgotten,  again  resounded  to  bring 
me  back  to  human  levels.  I  returned  to  the  hotel 
and  entered  the  breakfast-room,  with  an  appetite 
well  sharpened  by  the  crisp  wintry  air,  first  tak- 
ing a  furtive  glance  at  the  "  list,"  where  my  name 
still  presided  in  solitary  dignity.  It  was  still  early 
and  I  was  seated  at  the  head  of  a  long  table, 
where  there  were  as  yet  only  two  or  three  other 
guests.  I  felt  sure  that  the  day  would  be  a  busy 
one,  particularly  if  I  should  find  that  one  com- 

275 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

panion  with  whom  I  was  determined  to  attempt 
the  trail.  It  would  be  well  to  lay  in  a  good  sup- 
ply of  fuel,  and  accordingly  I  asked  the  waiter 
to  get  me  a  good  beefsteak  and  a  cup  of  coffee. 
He  suggested  griddle  cakes  in  addition,  as  appro- 
priate for  a  cold  morning,  and  I  assented.  Then 
suddenly  remembering  that  country  hotels  have 
a  way  of  serving  microscopic  portions  in  what 
a  distinguished  author  has  described  as  "bird 
bathtubs,"  I  called  over  my  shoulder  to  bring 
me  some  ham  and  eggs  also.  "  George  "  disap- 
peared with  a  grin.  When  he  returned,  holding 
aloft  a  huge  and  well-loaded  tray,  that  darky's 
face  was  a  vision  of  delight.  His  eyes  sparkled 
and  his  thick  lips  had  expanded  into  an  upturned 
crescent,  wherein  two  rows  of  gleaming  ivory 
stood  in  military  array,  every  one  determined  to 
be  seen.  He  laid  before  me  a  porter-house  steak, 
large  enough  for  my  entire  family,  an  immense 
elliptical  piece  of  ham  sliced  from  rim  to  rim  off 
the  thigh  of  a  huge  porker,  three  fried  eggs,  a 
small  mountain  of  buckwheat  cakes,  and  a  pot 
of  coffee,  remarking,  as  he  made  room  for  the 
generous  repast,  "  Ah  reckon  you-all  's  powerful 
hungry  dis  mawnin',  boss !  " 

By  this  time  the  table  was  well  filled.  There 
is  no  formality  at  such  places  and  we  were  soon 
chatting  together  like  old  acquaintances.  I  re- 
solved to  open  up  the  subject  of  the  trail  and 
asked  my  neighbor  at  the  right  whether  he  in- 

276 


THE  GRAND  CANON 

tended  to  make  the  trip.  He  said  "  No,"  rather 
indifferently,  I  thought,  and  I  expressed  my  sur- 
prise. I  had  read  the  guidebooks  to  good  pur- 
pose and  was  soon  expatiating  on  the  wonders  of 
the  trail,  declaring  that  I  could  not  understand 
why  people  should  come  from  all  parts  of  the 
world  to  see  the  canon  and  miss  the  finest  sight 
of  all,  the  view  from  below.  (Somebody  said  that 
in  the  guidebook.)  They  were  all  listening  now. 
Some  one  asked  if  it  was  not  dangerous.  "  Not 
in  the  least,"  I  replied ;  "  no  lives  have  ever  been 
lost  and  there  has  never  been  an  accident "  (the 
guidebook  said  that,  too)  — "  and,  besides,"  I 
continued,  knowingly,  "  it 's  lots  of  fun."  Just 
here  a  maiden  lady  of  uncertain  age,  cadaverous 
cheeks,  and  a  high,  squeaky  voice,  piped  out,  — 
"I  believe  I  '11  go."  I  remembered  my  vow  about 
the  one  companion  and  suddenly  felt  a  strange, 
sickly  feeling  of  irresolution.  But  it  was  only 
for  a  moment.  A  little  girl  of  twelve  was  tugging 
at  her  father's  coat-tails  —  "Papa,  can't  I  go?" 
Papa  conferred  with  Mamma,  who  agreed  that 
Bessie  might  go  if  Papa  went  too.  I  was  making 
progress.  A  masculine  voice  from  the  other  end 
of  the  table  then  broke  in  with  a  few  more  ques- 
tions, and  its  owner,  a  man  from  Minnesota,  whom 
we  afterward  called  the  "  Major,"  was  the  next 
recruit.  I  had  suddenly  gained  an  unwonted 
influence.  The  guests  were  evidently  inspired 
with  a  feeling  of  respect  for  a  man  who  would 
277 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

order  such  a  regal  breakfast !  After  the  meal 
was  over,  a  lady  approached  and  prefacing  her 
request  with  the  flattering  remark  that  I  "  looked 
respectable/'  said  that  her  daughter,  a  young 
lady  of  twenty,  was  anxious  to  go  down  the  trail ; 
she  would  consent  if  I  would  agree  to  see  that  no 
harm  befell  her.  I  thought  I  might  as  well  be  a 
chaperon  as  a  cicerone,  since  I  had  had  no  expe- 
rience as  either,  and  promptly  assured  the  mother 
of  my  willingness  to  accept  the  charge.  It  was  a 
vain  promise.  The  young  lady  was  the  first  to 
mount  her  mule  and  fell  into  line  behind  the 
guide ;  before  I  could  secure  my  animal  others 
had  taken  their  places  and  I  found  myself  three 
mules  astern,  with  no  possibility  of  passing  to 
the  front  or  of  exchanging  a  word  with  my 
"  charge."  I  fancied  a  slight  gleam  of  mischiev- 
ous triumph  in  her  eyes  as  she  looked  back, 
seeming  to  say,  "  I  can  take  care  of  myself,  quite 
well,  thank  you,  Mr.  Chaperon  !  "  After  a  slight 
delay,  I  secured  my  mule  and  taking  the  bridle 
firmly  in  hand  said,  "  Get  up,  Sam."  The  animal 
deliberately  turned  his  head  and  looked  back  at 
me  with  a  sardonic  smile  in  his  mulish  eye  that 
said  clearly  —  "  You  imagine  that  you  are  guid- 
ing me,  don't  you  ?  Just  wait  and  see  ! " 

There  were  seven  of  us,  including  the  guide, 

as  we  started  down  the  long  and  crooked  path. 

The  guide  rode  a  white  horse,  but  the  rest  of  the 

party  were  mounted,  like  myself,  on  big,  sturdy 

278 


THE  TRAIL,  GRAND  CANON 


THE  GRAND  CANON 

mules  —  none  of  your  little,  lazy  burros,  as  most 
people  imagine.  At  first  the  trail  seemed  to  de- 
scend at  a  frightful  angle,  and  the  path  seemed 
—  oh,  so  narrow  !  I  could  put  out  my  left  hand 
against  a  perpendicular  wall  of  rock  and  look 
down  on  the  right  into  what  seemed  to  be  the 
bottomless  pit.  I  noticed  that  the  trail  was  cov- 
ered with  snow  and  ice.  Suppose  any  of  the 
mules  should  slip  ?  Had  we  not  embarked  upon 
a  foolhardy  undertaking  ?  And  if  there  should 
be  an  accident,  all  the  blame  would  justly  fall 
upon  my  head.  How  silly  of  me  to  be  so  anxious 
to  go !  And  how  reckless  to  urge  all  these  other 
poor  innocents  into  such  a  trap ! 

Fortunately  such  notions  lasted  only  a  few 
minutes.  The  mules  were  sharp-shod  and  did  not 
slip.  They  went  down  every  day,  nearly,  and 
knew  their  business.  They  were  born  in  the 
canon.  They  would  have  been  terribly  fright- 
ened in  Broadway,  but  here  they  were  at  home 
and  followed  the  familiar  path  with  a  firm  tread. 
I  threw  the  bridle  over  the  pommel  of  the  saddle 
and  gave  Sam  my  implicit  trust.  He  knew  a  great 
deal  more  about  the  job  than  I  did.  From  that 
moment  I  had  no  further  thought  of  danger. 

I  came  to  have  a  high  respect  for  that  mule. 
Most  people  respect  a  mule  only  because  of  the 
possibility  that  his  hind  legs  may  suddenly  fly  out 
at  a  tangent  and  hit  something.  I  respected  Sam 
because  I  knew  his  legs  would  do  nothing  of  the 

279 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

kind.  He  needed  all  pf  them  under  him  and 
he  knew  it.  He  never  swerved  a  hair's  hreadth 
nearer  the  outer  edge  of  the  path  than  was  ab- 
solutely necessary.  The  trail  descends  in  a  series 
of  zigzag  lines  and  sharp  angles  like  the  teeth  of 
a  saw.  Sam  would  march  straight  down  to  one 
of  these  angles ;  then,  with  the  precipice  yawn- 
ing thousands  of  feet  below,  he  would  slowly 
squirm  around  until  his  head  was  pointed  down 
the  next  segment  and  then  with  great  delibera- 
tion resume  his  journey.  The  guide  thought  him 
too  deliberate  and  once  came  back  to  give  me  a 
small  willow  switch.  I  was  riding  on  a  narrow 
shelf  of  rock,  less  than  a  yard  wide,  where  I 
could  look  down  into  a  chasm  thousands  of  feet 
deep.  "That  mule  is  too  slow,"  he  said;  "you 
must  whip  him  up."  I  took  the  switch  and 
thanked  him.  But  I  would  n't  have  used  it  then 
for  a  million  dollars ! 

It  was  a  glorious  ride.  The  trail  itself  was  the 
only  sign  of  human  handiwork.  Everything  else 
in  sight  was  as  Nature  made  it — a  wild,  un- 
touched ruggedness  near  at  hand  and  a  softer, 
gentler  aspect  in  the  distance,  where  the  exposed 
strata  of  all  the  geologic  ages  caught  the  sun- 
shine at  millions  of  angles,  each  reflecting  its 
own  particular  hue  and  all  blending  together  in 
a  rich  harmony  of  color ;  where  the  bright  blue 
sky  and  the  fleecy  clouds  came  down  to  join  their 
earthly  brethren  in  a  revelry  of  rainbow  tints, 

280 


THE  GRAND  CANON 

and  the  sun  overhead,  despite  the  snow  about  the 
rim,  was  smiling  his  happiest  summer  benison 
upon  the  deep  valley. 

We  came,  presently,  to  a  place  called  Jacob's 
Ladder,  where  the  path  ceased  to  be  an  inclined 
plane  and  became  a  series  of  huge  steps,  each 
about  as  high  as  an  ordinary  table.  Here  we  all 
dismounted,  for  the  mules  could  not  safely  de- 
scend with  such  burdens.  It  was  comical  to  watch 
them.  My  Sam  would  stand  on  each  step  for 
several  minutes,  gazing  about  as  though  enjoy- 
ing the  scenery.  Then,  as  if  struck  by  a  sudden 
notion,  he  would  drop  his  fore  legs  to  the  next 
step,  and  with  hind  legs  still  at  the  higher  ele- 
vation, pause  in  further  contemplation.  At  length 
it  would  occur  to  this  deliberate  animal  that  his 
hind  legs,  after  all,  really  belonged  on  the  same 
level  with  the  other  two,  and  he  would  suddenly 
drop  them  down  and  again  become  rapt  in 
thought.  This  performance  was  repeated  on 
every  step  for  the  entire  descent  of  more  than 
one  hundred  feet. 

After  traveling  about  three  hours,  during 
which  we  had  descended  three  thousand  feet  be- 
low the  rim,  we  came  to  Indian  Garden,  where 
an  Indian  family  once  found  a  fertile  spot  on 
which  they  could  practice  farming  in  their  own 
crude  way.  Here  we  came  to  some  tents  belong- 
ing to  a  camping-party,  and  I  found  the  solu- 
tion of  a  problem  that  had  puzzled  me  earlier  in 

281 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

the  day.  Standing  on  the  rim  and  looking  across 
the  canon  I  had  seen  what  appeared  to  be  a 
newspaper  lying  on  the  grass.  I  knew  it  must 
be  three  or  four  miles  from  where  I  stood,  and 
that  a  newspaper  would  be  invisible  at  that  dis- 
tance, yet  I  could  not  imagine  how  any  natural 
object  could  appear  white  and  rectangular  so  far 
away.  Presently  I  saw  some  tiny  objects  moving 
slowly  like  a  string  of  black  ants,  and  realized 
that  these  must  be  some  early  trail  party.  We 
met  them  at  Indian  Garden.  They  proved  to  be 
prospectors  and  the  "newspaper"  was  in  reality 
the  group  of  tents. 

We  had  now  left  the  steep  zigzag  path,  and 
riding  straight  forward  over  a  great  plateau,  we 
came  to  the  brink  of  some  granite  cliffs,  where 
we  could  at  last  see  the  Colorado  River,  thun- 
dering through  the  gorge  thirteen  hundred  feet 
below.  And  what  a  river  it  is  !  From  the  rim  we 
could  only  catch  an  occasional  glimpse,  looking 
like  a  narrow  silver  ribbon,  threading  in  and  out 
among  a  multitude  of  strangely  fashioned  domes 
and  turrets.  Here  we  saw  something  of  its  true 
character,  though  still  too  far  away  to  feel  its 
real  power  —  a  boiling,  turbulent,  angry,  and 
useless  stream  dashing  wildly  through  a  barren 
valley  of  rock  and  sand,  its  waters  capable  of 
generating  millions  of  horse-power,  but  too  in- 
accessible to  be  harnessed,  and  its  surface  vio- 
lently resisting  the  slightest  attempt  at  naviga- 
282 


THE  GRAND  CANON 

tion ;  a  veritable  anarchist  of  a  river !  For  more 
than  a  thousand  miles  it  rushes  through  a  deep 
cation  toward  the  sea,  falling  forty-two  hundred 
feet  between  its  source  and  mouth  and  for  five 
hundred  miles  of  its  course  tumbling  in  a  series 
of  five  hundred  and  twenty  cataracts  and  rapids 
— an  average  of  slightly  more  than  one  to  every 
mile. 

Think  of  the  courage  of  brave  Major  Powell 
and  his  men,  who  descended  this  terrible  river  for 
the  first  time,  and  you  have  a  subject  for  contem- 
plation as  sublime  as  the  canon  itself.  In  the 
spring  of  1869,  when  John  W.  Powell  started  on 
his  famous  expedition,  the  Grand  Canon  was 
totally  unknown.  Hunters  and  prospectors  had 
seen  enough  to  bring  back  wonderful  stories. 
Parties  had  ventured  into  the  gorge  in  boats  and 
had  never  been  heard  of  again.  The  Indians 
warned  him  that  the  canon  was  sacred  to  the 
gods,  who  would  consider  any  attempt  to  enter 
it  an  act  of  disobedience  to  their  wishes  and  con- 
tempt for  their  authority,  and  vengeance  would 
surely  follow.  The  incessant  roar  of  the  waters 
told  of  many  cataracts  and  it  was  currently  re- 
ported that  the  river  was  lost  underground  for 
several  hundred  miles.  Undaunted  by  these  fear- 
ful tales,  Major  Powell,  who  had  seen  service  in 
the  Civil  War,  leaving  an  arm  on  the  battlefield 
of  Shiloh,  determined,  nevertheless,  to  descend 
the  river.  He  had  long  been  a  student  of  botany, 

283 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

zoology,  and  mineralogy  and  had  devoted  two 
years  to  a  study  of  the  geology  of  the  region. 

With  nine  other  men  as  his  companions,  he 
started  from  Green  River  City,  Wyoming,  on  the 
24th  of  May,  with  one  light  boat  of  pine  and 
three  heavy  ones  built  of  oak.  Nothing  could  be 
more  modest  than  his  report  to  the  Government, 
yet  it  is  an  account  of  thrilling  adventures  and 
hair-breadth  escapes,  day  by  day,  almost  too  mar- 
velous for  belief.  Yet  there  is  not  the  slightest 
doubt  of  its  authenticity  in  every  detail.  At  times 
the  swift  current  carried  them  along  with  the  speed 
of  an  express  train,  the  waves  breaking  and  roll- 
ing over  the  boats,  which,  but  for  the  water-tight 
compartments,  must  have  been  swamped  at  the 
outset. 

When  a  threatening  roar  gave  warning  of  an- 
other cataract  they  would  pull  for  the  shore  and 
prepare  to  make  a  portage.  The  boats  were  un- 
loaded and  the  stores  of  provisions,  instruments, 
etc.,  carried  down  to  some  convenient  point  be- 
low the  falls.  Then  the  boats  were  let  down,  one 
by  one.  The  bow  line  would  be  taken  below  and 
made  fast.  Then  with  five  or  six  men  holding 
back  on  the  stern  line  with  all  their  strength, 
the  boat  would  be  allowed  to  go  down  as  far  as 
they  could  hold  it,  when  the  line  would  be  cast 
off,  the  boat  would  leap  over  the  falls,  and  be 
caught  by  the  lower  rope.  Again  and  again,  day 
after  day  throughout  the  entire  summer,  this 
284 


THE  GRAND  CANON 

hard  work  was  continued.  In  the  early  evenings 
and  mornings  Major  Powell,  with  a  companion 
or  two,  would  climb  to  the  top  of  the  high  cliffs, 
towering  to  a  height  of  perhaps  two  thousand 
or  three  thousand  feet  above  the  river,  to  make 
his  observations,  frequently  getting  into  danger- 
ous positions  where  a  man  with  two  arms  would 
have  difficulty  in  clinging  to  the  rocks,  and 
where  any  one  but  a  man  of  iron  nerve  would 
have  met  instant  death. 

Day  by  day  they  faced  what  seemed  certain 
destruction,  dashing  through  rapids,  spinning 
about  in  whirlpools,  capsizing  in  the  breakers, 
and  clinging  to  the  upturned  boats  until  rescued 
or  thrown  up  on  some  rocky  islet,  breaking  their 
oars,  losing  or  spoiling  their  rations  until  they 
were  nearly  gone,  and  toiling  incessantly  every 
waking  hour.  One  of  the  boats  was  completely 
wrecked  before  they  had  crossed  the  Arizona 
line,  and  one  man,  who  barely  escaped  death  in 
this  accident,  left  the  party  on  July  5,  declaring 
that  he  had  seen  danger  enough.  The  remaining 
eight,  whether  from  loyalty  to  their  chief  or  be- 
cause it  seemed  impossible  to  climb  to  the  top 
of  the  chasm,  continued  to  brave  the  perils  of 
the  river  until  August  27,  when  they  had  reached 
a  point  well  below  the  mouth  of  the  Bright  Angel 
River.  Here  the  danger  seemed  more  appalling 
than  at  any  previous  time.  Lateral  streams  had 
washed  great  boulders  into  the  river,  forming  a 

285 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

dam  over  which  the  water  fell  eighteen  or  twenty 
feet;  then  appeared  a  rapid  for  two  or  three 
hundred  yards  on  one  side,  the  walls  of  the 
canon  projecting  sharply  into  the  river  on  the 
other  ;  then  a  second  fall  so  great  that  its  height 
could  not  be  determined,  and  beyond  this  more 
rapids,  filled  with  huge  rocks  for  one  or  two 
hundred  yards,  and  at  the  bottom  a  great  rock 
jutting  halfway  across  the  river,  having  a  slop- 
ing side  up  which  the  tumbling  waters  dashed 
in  huge  breakers.  After  spending  the  afternoon 
clambering  among  the  rocks  to  survey  the  river 
and  coolly  calculating  his  chances,  the  dauntless 
Powell  announced  his  intention  to  proceed.  But 
there  were  three  men  whose  courage  was  not 
equal  to  this  latest  demand,  and  they  firmly  de- 
clined the  risk. 

On  the  morning  of  the  28th,  after  a  breakfast 
that  seemed  like  a  funeral,  the  three  deserters  — 
one  can  scarcely  find  the  heart  to  blame  them 
—  climbed  a  crag  to  see  their  former  comrades 
depart.  One  boat  is  left  behind.  The  other  two 
push  out  into  the  stream  and  in  less  than  a  min- 
ute have  safely  run  the  dangerous  rapids,  which 
seemed  bad  enough  from  above,  but  were  in 
reality  less  difficult  than  many  others  previously 
experienced.  A  succession  of  rapids  and  falls  are 
safely  run,  but  after  dinner  they  find  themselves 
in  another  bad  place.  The  river  is  tumbling 
down  over  the  rocks  in  whirlpools  and  great 
286 


THE  GRAND  CANON 

waves  and  the  angry  waters  are  lashed  into  white 
foam.  There  is  no  possibility  of  a  portage  and 
both  boats  must  go  over  the  falls.  Away  they 
go,  dashing  and  plunging,  striking  the  rocks 
and  rolling  over  and  over  until  they  reach  the 
calmer  waters  below,  when  as  if  by  miracle  it  is 
found  that  every  man  in  the  party  is  uninjured 
and  both  the  boats  are  safe.  By  noon  of  the 
next  day  they  have  emerged  from  the  Grand 
Canon  into  a  valley  where  low  mountains  can 
be  seen  in  the  distance.  The  river  flows  in  silent 
majesty,  the  sky  is  bright  overhead,  the  birds 
pour  forth  the  music  of  a  joyous  welcome,  the 
toil  and  pain  are  over,  the  gloomy  shadows  have 
disappeared,  and  their  joy  is  exquisite  as  they 
realize  that  the  first  passage  of  the  long  and  ter- 
rible river  has  been  safely  accomplished  and  all 
are  alive  and  well. 

But  what  of  the  three  who  left  them  ?  If  only 
they  could  have  known  that  safety  and  joy  were 
little  more  than  a  day  ahead !  They  successfully 
climbed  the  steep  canon  walls,  only  to  encounter 
a  band  of  Indians  who  were  looking  for  cattle 
thieves  or  other  plunderers.  They  could  give  no 
other  account  of  their  presence  except  to  say  they 
had  come  down  the  river.  This,  to  the  Indian 
mind,  was  so  obviously  an  impossibility  that  the 
truth  seemed  an  audacious  lie  and  the  three  un- 
fortunate men  were  murdered. 

We  were  obliged  to  content  ourselves  with  a 
287 


THE  LUSE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

view  of  the  river  from  this  height,  though  I  had 
expected  to  descend  to  the  river's  edge  and  felt 
correspondingly  disappointed.  We  had  started 
too  late  for  so  long  a  trip  and  now  it  was  time  to 
turn  back.  Looking  back  at  the  solid  and  appar- 
ently perpendicular  rock,  nearly  a  mile  high,  it 
seemed  impossible  that  any  one  could  ascend  to 
the  top.  It  is  only  when  one  looks  out  from  the 
bottom  of  this  vast  chasm  at  the  huge  walls  on 
every  side  that  he  begins  to  realize  its  awf  ulness. 
We  are  mere  specks  in  the  bottom  of  a  gigantic 
mould  wherein  some  great  mountain  range  might 
have  been  cast.  There  are  great  mountains  all 
about  us  and  yet  we  are  not  on  a  mountain  but  in  a 
vast  hole.  The  surface  of  the  earth  is  above  us.  A 
great  gash  has  been  cut  into  it,  two  hundred  miles 
long,  twelve  to  fifteen  miles  wide,  and  a  mile  deep, 
and  we  are  in  the  depths  of  that  frightful  abyss 
with  —  to  all  appearance  —  no  possible  means  of 
escape.  Perpendicular  cliffs  of  enormous  height, 
which  not  even  a  mountain  sheep  could  climb,  hem 
us  in  on  every  side.  The  shadows  are  growing  deep 
and  it  seems  that  the  day  must  be  nearly  done.  Yet 
we  remount  our  mules  and  slowly  retrace  our 
steps  over  the  steep  ascent.  It  seems  as  though 
the  strain  would  break  the  backs  of  the  animals. 
As  we  approached  the  summit  of  the  path  some 
one  remarked,  "  I  should  think  these  mules  would 
be  so  tired  they  would  be  ready  to  drop."  "Wait 
and  see,"  said  the  guide.  A  few  minutes  later  we 
288 


THE  GRAND  CANON 

reached  the  top  and  dismounted,  feeling  pretty 
stiff  from  the  exertion.  The  mules  were  unsaddled 
and  turned  loose.  Away  they  scampered  like  a 
lot  of  schoolboys  at  recess,  kicking  their  heels 
high  in  the  air  and  racing  madly  across  the  field. 
"  I  guess  they  're  not  as  tired  as  we  are,"  said 
the  Major,  as  he  painfully  tried  to  straighten 
up.  Just  then  the  little  girl  of  twelve  came  up  to 
me.  "  There  is  one  thing,"  she  said,  "  that  has 
been  puzzling  me  all  day.  How  in  the  world  did 
you  find  out  so  quickly  that  your  mule's  name  was 
Sam? "  "Name  ain't  Sam,"  interrupted  the  guide, 
bluntly.  "Name's  Teddy— Teddy  Roosevelt." 

Some  years  ago  I  had  occasion  to  attend  a 
stereopticon  lecture  on  the  Grand  Canon.  The 
speaker  was  enthusiastic  and  his  pictures  excel- 
lent. But  he  fired  off  all  his  ammunition  of  ad- 
jectives with  the  first  slide.  For  an  hour  and  a 
half  we  sat  listening  to  an  endless  repetition  of 
"grand,"  "magnificent,"  "sublime,"  "awe-in- 
spiring," etc.  As  we  walked  home  a  young  lad 
in  our  party,  who  was  evidently  studying  rhet- 
oric in  school,  was  heard  to  inquire,  "Mother, 
would  n't  you  call  that  an  example  of  tautology?  " 
I  fear  I  should  merit  the  same  criticism  if  I  were 
to  undertake  a  description  of  the  canon.  Yet 
we  may  profitably  stand,  for  a  few  moments,  on 
Hopi  Point,  a  promontory  that  projects  far  out 
from  the  rim,  and  try  to  measure  it  with  our  eyes. 

That  great  wall  on  the  opposite  side  is  just 
289 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

thirteen  miles  away.  The  strip  of  white  at  its 
upper  edge,  which  in  my  photograph  measures 
less  than  a  quarter  of  an  inch,  is  a  stratum  of 
limestone  five  hundred  feet  thick.  Here  and  there 
we  catch  glimpses  of  the  river.  It  is  five  miles 
away,  and  forty-six  hundred  feet  —  nearly  a  per- 
pendicular mile  —  below  the  level  upon  which  we 
are  standing.  We  look  to  the  east  and  then  to  the 
west,  but  we  see  only  a  small  part  of  the  chasm. 
It  melts  away  in  the  distance  like  a  ship  at  sea. 
From  end  to  end  it  is  two  hundred  and  seventeen 
miles.  It  is  not  one  canon,  but  thousands.  Every 
river  that  runs  into  the  Colorado  has  cut  out  its 
own  canon,  and  each  of  these  has  its  countless 
tributaries.  It  has  been  estimated  that  if  all  the 
canons  were  placed  end  to  end  in  a  straight  line 
they  would  stretch  twenty  thousand  miles. 

If  this  mighty  gash  in  the  earth's  surface  were 
only  a  great  valley  with  gently  sloping  sides  and 
a  level  floor,  it  would  still  be  impressive  and  in- 
spiring, though  not  so  picturesque.  But  its  floor 
is  filled  with  a  multitude  of  temples  and  castles 
and  amphitheaters  of  stupendous  size,  all  sculp- 
tured into  strange  shapes  by  the  erosion  of  the 
waters.  Any  one  of  these,  if  it  could  be  trans- 
ported to  the  level  plains  of  the  Middle  West  or 
set  up  on  the  Atlantic  Coast,  would  be  an  object 
of  wonder  which  hundreds  of  thousands  would 
visit.  Away  off  in  the  distance  is  the  Temple  of 
Shiva,  towering  seventy-six  hundred  and  fifty 
290 


THE  GRAND  CANON 

feet  above  the  sea  and  fifty-two  hundred  and 
fourteen  feet  (nearly  a  mile)  above  the  river. 
Take  it  to  the  White  Mountains  and  set  it  down 
in  the  Crawford  Notch.  From  its  summit  you 
would  look  down  upon  the  old  Tip-Top  house  of 
Mount  Washington,  eight  hundred  feet  below. 
Much  nearer,  and  a  little  to  the  right,  is  the 
"  Pyramid  of  Cheops,"  a  much  smaller  butte  but 
rising  fifty-three  hundred  and  fifty  feet  above 
the  sea-level.  If  the  "  Great  Pyramid  of  Cheops" 
in  Egypt  were  to  be  placed  by  its  side  it  would 
scarcely  be  visible  from  where  we  stand,  for  it 
would  be  lost  in  the  mass  of  rocky  formations. 
Mr.  G.  Wharton  James,  who  has  spent  many 
years  of  his  life  in  the  study  of  the  canon,  says 
that  he  gazed  upon  it  from  a  certain  point  every 
year  for  twenty  years  and  often  daily  for  weeks 
at  a  time.  He  continues,  "  Such  is  the  marvel- 
ousness  of  distance  that  never  until  two  days  ago 
did  I  discover  that  a  giant  detached  mountain 
fully  eight  thousand  feet  high  and  with  a  base 
ten  miles  square  .  .  .  stood  in  the  direct  line  of 
my  sight,  and  as  it  were,  immediately  before  me." 
He  discovered  it  only  because  of  a  peculiarity  of 
the  light.  It  had  always  appeared  as  a  part  of 
the  great  north  wall,  though  separated  from  it  by 
a  canon  fully  eight  miles  wide. 

How  are  we  to  realize  these  enormous  depths  ? 
Those  isolated  peaks  and  mountains,  of  which 
there  are  hundreds,  are  really  only  details  in 

291 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

the  vast  stretch  of  the  canon.  Not  one  of  them 
reaches  above  the  level  of  the  plain  on  the  north 
side.  Tourists  who  have  traveled  much  are  famil- 
iar with  the  great  cathedrals  of  Europe.  Let  us 
drop  a  few  of  them  into  the  canon.  First,  St. 
Peter's,  the  greatest  cathedral  in  the  world.  We 
lower  it  to  the  level  of  the  river,  and  it  disappears 
behind  the  granite  cliff.  Let  the  stately  Duomo 
of  Milan  follow.  Its  beautiful  minarets  and  mul- 
titude of  statues  are  lost  in  the  distance,  and 
though  we  place  it  on  the  top  of  St.  Peter's,  it,  too, 
is  out  of  sight  behind  the  cliffs.  We  must  have 
something  larger,  so  we  place  on  top  of  Milan 
the  great  cathedral  of  Cologne,  five  hundred  and 
one  feet  high,  and  the  tips  of  its  two  great  spires 
barely  appear  above  the  point  from  which  we 
watched  the  swiftly  rolling  river.  Now  let  us  poise 
on  the  top  of  Cologne's  spires,  two  great  Gothic 
cathedrals  of  France,  Notre  Dame  and  Amiens, 
one  above  the  other,  then  add  St.  Paul's  of  London, 
the  three  great  towers  of  Lincoln,  the  triple  spires 
of  Lichfield,  Canterbury  with  its  great  central 
tower,  and  the  single  spire,  four  hundred  and 
four  feet  high,  of  Salisbury.  We  are  still  far  from 
the  top.  These  units  of  measurement  are  too 
small.  Let  us  add  the  tallest  office  building  in 
the  world,  seven  hundred  and  fifty  feet  high,  and 
then  the  Eiffel  Tower,  of  nine  hundred  and 
eighty-six  feet.  We  shall  still  need  the  Washing- 
ton Monument,  and  if  my  calculations  are  cor- 
292 


THE  GRAND  CANON 

rect,  an  extension  ladder  seventy-five  feet  long 
on  top  of  that,  to  enable  us  to  reach  the  top  of 
the  northern  wall.  One  might  amuse  himself  in- 
definitely with  such  comparisons.  Perhaps  they 
are  futile,  but  it  is  only  by  some  such  method 
that  one  can  form  the  faintest  conception  of  the 
colossal  dimensions  of  this,  the  greatest  chasm 
in  the  world. 

Still  more  bewildering  is  the  attempt  to  meas- 
ure the  canon  in  periods  of  time.  There  were 
two  great  periods  in  its  history  —  first,  the  pe- 
riod of  upheaval,  and  second,  that  of  erosion. 
When  the  geologic  movement  was  in  process 
which  created  the  continent,  with  the  Rocky 
Mountains  for  its  backbone,  this  entire  region 
became  a  plateau,  vastly  higher  than  at  present, 
with  its  greatest  elevation  far  to  the  north.  Then 
the  rivers  began  to  carry  the  rains  and  snows  to 
the  sea,  carving  channels  for  themselves  through 
the  rocky  surface.  The  steep  decline  caused  the 
waters  to  flow  with  swiftness.  The  little  stream- 
lets united  to  form  larger  ones,  and  these  in 
turn  joined  their  waters  in  still  greater  streams. 
The  larger  the  stream  and  the  swifter  the  flow, 
the  faster  the  channel  would  be  carved.  The 
softer  rocks  gave  slight  resistance,  but  when  the 
granite  or  harder  formations  were  encountered, 
the  streams  would  eddy  and  whirl  about  in  search 
of  new  channels,  the  hard  rocks  forming  a  tem- 
porary dam.  In  this  way  the  hundreds  of  buttes 

293 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

were  formed.  The  Green  River  and  the  Grand 
unite  to  form  the  Colorado,  the  entire  course  of 
this  great  waterway  stretching  for  two  thousand 
miles.  The  two  streams  carry  down  a  mighty 
flood  —  in  former  ages  it  was  far  mightier  than 
now — which  in  its  swift  descent  has  ground  the 
rocks  into  sand  and  silt  and  with  resistless  force 
carried  them  down  to  the  sea.  Those  great  buttes 
and  strangely  sculptured  temples,  each  a  formid- 
able mountain,  were  not  thrown  up  by  volcanic 
forces,  but  have  been  carved  out  of  the  solid 
earth  by  the  erosion  of  the  waters.  That  river 
five  miles  away,  of  which  we  see  only  glimpses 
here  and  there,  was  the  tool  with  which  the 
Great  Sculptor  carved  all  this  wondrous  chasm. 
Major  Powell  has  calculated  that  the  amount  of 
rock  thus  ground  to  pieces  and  carried  away 
would  be  equivalent  to  a  mass  two  hundred  thou- 
sand square  miles  in  area  and  a  full  mile  in  thick- 
ness. Think  of  excavating  a  mile  deep  the  entire 
territory  of  New  England,  New  York,  New  Jer- 
sey, Pennsylvania,  Delaware,  Maryland,  and  West 
Virginia,  and  dumping  it  all  into  the  Atlantic. 
Then  think  that  this  is  the  task  the  Colorado 
River  and  other  geologic  forces  have  accom- 
plished, and  pause  to  wonder  how  long  it  took 
to  complete  the  process !  If  the  Egyptian  kings 
who  built  the  pyramids  had  come  here  for  mate- 
rial they  would  have  seen  the  chasm  substan- 
tially as  we  see  it ! 

294 


THE  GRAND  CANON 

The  geologic  story  of  the  canon's  origin  is  too 
far  beyond  our  comprehension.  Let  us  turn  to 
the  Indian  account.  A  great  chief  lost  his  wife 
and  refused  to  be  comforted.  An  Indian  God, 
Ta-vwoats,  came  to  him  and  offered  to  conduct 
him  to  a  happier  land  where  he  might  see  her, 
if  he  would  promise  to  cease  mourning.  Then 
Ta-vwoats  made  a  trail  through  the  mountains 
to  the  happy  land  and  there  the  chief  saw  his 
wife.  This  trail  was  the  canon  of  the  Colorado. 
The  deity  made  the  chief  promise  that  he  would 
reveal  the  path  to  no  man,  lest  all  might  wish  to 
go  at  once  to  heaven,  and  in  order  to  block  the 
way  still  more  effectually  he  rolled  a  mad  surg- 
ing river  through  the  gorges  so  swift  and  strong 
that  it  would  destroy  any  one  who  dared  attempt 
to  enter  heaven  by  that  route. 

I  have  often  been  asked  which  is  the  greater 
wonder,  the  Grand  Canon  of  the  Colorado  River 
or  the  Yellowstone  National  Park.  The  question 
is  unanswerable.  One  might  as  well  attempt  to 
say  whether  the  sea  is  more  beautiful  than  the 
sky.  If  mere  size  is  meant,  the  Grand  Canon  is 
vastly  greater.  If  all  the  geysers  of  the  Yellow- 
stone were  placed  down  in  the  bottom  of  the 
Grand  Canon  at  the  level  of  thie  river,  and  all 
were  to  play  at  once,  the  effect  would  be  unno- 
ticed from  Hopi  Point.  The  canon  of  the  Yellow- 
stone River,  impressive  as  it  is,  would  be  lost  in 
one  of  the  side  canons  of  the  Colorado. 
295 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  CAMERA 

The  Grand  Canon  and  the  Yellowstone  are 
creations  of  a  totally  different  kind. 

The  Yellowstone  is  a  garden  of  wonders.  The 
Grand  Canon  is  a  sublime  spectacle. 

The  Yellowstone  is  a  variety  of  interesting 
units.  The  Grand  Cafion  is  a  unit  of  infinite 
variety. 

The  Yellowstone  contains  a  collection  of  in- 
dividual marvels,  each  wondrous  in  structure  and 
many  of  them  exquisite  in  beauty.  The  Grand 
Canon  is  one  vast  masterpiece  of  unimagined 
architecture,  limitless  grandeur,  and  ever-chang- 
ing but  splendidly  harmonious  brilliancy  of  color. 

The  Yellowstone  fills  the  mind  with  wonder 
and  amazement  at  all  the  varied  resources  of 
Nature.  The  Grand  Canon  fills  the  soul  with 
awe  and  reverence  as  one  stands  in  silence  upon 
the  brink  and  humbly  reflects  upon  the  infinite 
power  of  God. 


THE   END 


INDEX 


INDEX 


Alcott,  A.  Bronson,  192,  193. 
Alcott,  Louisa  M.,  193. 
Aldrich,  Thomas  Bailey,  207-20. 
Amiel,  Henri  Frederic,  118;  124- 

27. 

Anderson,  Mary,  110,  112,  113. 
Appledore,  222,  223,  232. 
Arbury  Hall,  20-28. 
ARIZONA,   THE   GRAND   CANON 

OP,  271-96. 

Arnold,  Thomas,  52,  98,  99. 
Arena,  156. 

Authari,  the  Long-haired,  164. 
Ayrshire,  46-48. 

Bashkirtseff,  Marie,  132,  133. 
Bastien-Lepage,  133. 
Battlefield  of  Concord,  186,  187. 
Belgirate,  155-56. 
Bellagio,  168. 
Borromeo,  Carlo,  156,  161. 
Borromeo,  Count  Vitdiiano,  154. 
Bruce,  Robert,  85,  90,  91. 
Burns,  Robert,  *43-48. 
BURROUGHS,  JOHN,  A  DAT  WITH, 

233-50. 

Burroughs,  John,  227,  228. 
Byron,  Lord,  143,  144. 

Cadenabbia,  158,  159. 

Cafion  of  the  Yellowstone,  the, 

267-69. 

Carlyle,  Thomas,  41,  44,  66. 
Caroline,  Queen,  168. 
Catskill    Mountains,    237,    238, 

239,  242,  243,  246. 
Channing,  Ellery,  186. 
Coleridge,  Hartley,  62. 
Coleridge,  Samuel  T.,  51,  61,  62. 


Colorado    River,    the,    282-88; 

293-95. 

Colvin,  Sir  Sidney,  19-21. 
Como,  City  of,  165,  168. 
Como,  Lake,  95-98;  137;  138; 

150; 158-68. 
Concord,  Massachusetts,  179-95. 

Deffand,  Marquise  du,  140. 

De  Quincey,  Thomas,  52,  59,  63, 

64. 
Drummond,  William,  77-84. 

Ecclefechan,  41-44. 

Eliot  George,,  20-35. 

Ellastone,  original  of  "Hay- 
slope,"  31. 

Emerson,  Lidian,  188,  190. 

Emerson,  Ralph  Waldo,  17;  181- 
92;  249. 

Esk,  Vale  of  the,  75-92. 

Esthwaite,  Lake,  56. 

Evans,  Rev.  Frederick  R.,  28-29. 

Fields,  James  T.,  199,  200. 

Gaeta  vase,  170. 

Gallic,  Cardinal,  168. 

Gould,  Jay,  236,  237. 

GRAND  CANON  OP  ARIZONA,  THE, 

271-96. 

Grant,  Gen.  U.  S.,  244. 
Grasmere,  59,  60,  61,  65,  66. 
Gravedona,  palace  of  Cardinal 

Gallic,  168. 
GREAT   BRITAIN,    LITERARY 

RAMBLES  IN,  15-18. 
Green,  Thomas  H.,  117, 118, 122, 

123,  124,  127. 


299 


INDEX 


Haines,  George,  170-74. 

Hawthorne,  Elizabeth,  198,  199. 

Hawthorne,  Madam,  198,  200. 

Hawthorne,  Nathaniel;  in  Con- 
cord, 179-95;  in  Salem,  196- 
206. 

Hawthorne,  Sophia  Peabody, 
180,  185;  198;  199. 

HAWTHORNDEN  TO  ROSLIN  GLEN, 
FROM,  73-92. 

Holmes,  Oliver  Wendell,  17. 

"House  of  the  Seven  Gables, 
The,"  196,  202-06. 

II  Medeghino,  160-63. 
Iron  Crown  of  Lombardy,  165. 
Isles  of  Shoals,  the,  222-32. 
Isola  Bella,  152-55. 
Isola  dei  Pescatori,  155. 
Isola  Madre,  155. 
ITALIAN  LAKES,  A  TOUB  OF  THE, 
147-74. 

Jonson,  Ben,  81-84. 

Lacus  Larius.  See  Como. 
Lacus  Verbanus.  See  Maggiore. 
"Lady  Wentworth,"  scenes  of, 

220,  221. 

Laighton,  Oscar,  229. 
Lamb,    William    and    Gasoline, 

141-44. 

Lasswade,  75-76. 
Lecco,  Lake,  95,  96. 
Lespinasse,  Julie  de,  139-41. 
Longfellow,  Henry  Wadsworth, 

17;  159;  220;  221. 
Lowell,  James  Russell,  17;  55; 

232. 

Lugano,  Lake,  96, 151, 157, 159. 
Luino,  156, 157. 

Maggiore,  Lake,  96,  149,  150, 

152-56,  159. 
Mammoth  Hot  Springs,  255-57. 


Medici,    Gian   Giacomo   de    (II 

Medeghino),  160-63. 
Melbourne,  Lord,  141-44. 
Menaggio,  160. 
Minute-Man,  the,  Concord,  186, 

187. 
Monument,  the,  on  battlefield  of 

Concord,  186,  187. 
Musketaquid,  river  at  Concord, 

185. 

NEW  ENGLAND,  LITERARY  LAND- 
MARKS OF,  175-232. 
Nuneaton,  20,  22,  29,  30. 
Nutter  House,  the,  207-16. 

Old  Faithful,  254;  262-65. 
Old  Manse,  the,  179-86. 
Oxford,  99-100. 

Passmore  Edwards  Settlement, 
London,  103-09,  127. 

Pattison,  Mark,  100;  117-21; 
126,  127. 

Peabody,  Elizabeth  Palmer,  198. 

Peabody,  Mary  (Mrs.  Horace 
Mann),  198. 

Peabody,  Dr.  Nathaniel,  197. 

Peabody,  Sophia.  See  Haw- 
thorne, Sophia  Peabody. 

Pliny,  the  Elder,  160,  166. 

Pliny,  the  Younger,  166,  167. 

Pogliaghi,  Lombard  decorator, 
170,  171. 

Portsmouth,  N.H.,  207-21. 

Powell,  Major  John  W.,  283- 
87. 

Ripley,  Rev.  Ezra,  182. 
Ripley,  Rev.  Samuel,  182. 
"Robert    Elsmere,"    102,    109, 

110-27. 

Roslin  Castle,  86-88. 
Roslin  Chapel,  88,  90. 
Roslin  Glen,  75-92. 


300 


INDEX 


St.  Clair  family,  of  Roslin,  87,  88, 
91,  92. 

Salem,  Massachusetts,  196-206. 

Salpion,  Greek  sculptor,  170. 

"Scarlet  Letter,  The,"  201-02. 

Scott,  Sir  Walter,  37,  38,  39,  45, 
46,  75,  76,  89,  90,  239. 

Sleepy  Hollow  Cemetery,  Con- 
cord, 187-89. 

Southey,  Robert,  51. 

Thaxter,  Celia,  221,  223-32. 
Theodelinda,  Queen  of  the  Lom- 
bards, 163-65. 

Thoreau,  Henry  D.,  182-91;  228. 
Tower  of  London,  18. 
Tremezzo,  168. 

Varenna,  163. 

Victoria  Monument,  London,  40. 

Villa  Bonaventura,  169. 

Villa  Carlotta,  168,  169. 

Villa  d'  Este,  168. 

VUla  Maria,  169-74. 

Villa  Pliniana,  167,  168. 

Walden  Pond,  191. 
WARD,    MBS.    HUMPHRY,    THE 
COUNTRY  OF,  93-146. 


Ward,  Mrs.  Humphry,  scenes  of 

novels,  36,  37,   111-17;  128- 

31;  134-38;  145;  169. 
Washburn,  Gen.  Henry  D.,  253. 
Wayside,  the,  Hawthorne's  house 

in  Concord,  193,  194. 
Wentworth  House,  220-21. 
Westmoreland,  51-72;  98;  131; 

134;  135;  136;  239;  241. 
White,  Gilbert,  228. 
Wilson,       John       (Christopher 

North),  52. 
Windermere,  Lake,  54;  68;  70; 

98. 

Windennere  village,  51. 
WORDSWORTH'S     COUNTRY,     A 

DAY  IN,  49-72. 
Wordsworth,   Dorothy,   41,   63, 

64,65. 

Wordsworth,  Mrs.,  63. 
Wordsworth,  William,  41;  51-72; 

98;  158;  239-43. 

YELLOWSTONE,     GLIMPSES     OB 

THE,  251-69. 

Yellowstone  Lake,  the,  261;  267. 
Yellowstone  National  Park,  the, 

295,  296. 
Yellowstone  River,  the,  267,  268. 


CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 
U   .   S    .   A 


YC   10203 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


